The Book of the Dead
by JunoMagic
Summary: Sequel of 'The Apprentice and the Necromancer'. Virtual penny dreadful with many short episodes. SS/HG. Hurt/Comfort. Romance. Horror. X–over. On hiatus until further notice.
1. Nothing Good Will Come of That

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of **Joanne K. Rowling,** **Garth Nix** and **Roald Dahl.** Any characters, settings, places from the Harry Potter books and movies used in this work are the property of Joanne K. Rowling, and Warner Brothers; any concepts, items and settings from the Abhorsen books used in this work are the property of Garth Nix. Original characters, settings and concepts belong to the author of this work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at FanFictionNet, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

All characters, places and events in this story are either the products of the relevant author's imagination or they are used entirely fictiously.

**oooOooo**

**Summary: **This is the sequel of my virtual penny dreadful "The Apprentice and the Necromancer".

In April 2003, Hermione is safely back at Hogwarts, but still refusing to touch a wand. She has finished her Potions apprenticeship without taking the final exams and is now working in the library, Muggle-style, helping Irma Pince with whatever needs to be done (and can be done without magic).

Severus is still Potions master. Additionally, he's giving Alina private lessons. Now in her fourth year at Hogwarts, Alina is accomplished enough in wandless, voiceless magic that she is able to keep up with her classmates in spite of her disabilities (being unable to speak and hear). However, now the time has come for her to truly learn the Dark Art of Necromancy and to read "The Book of the Dead".

Lois Petrel has married Ron Weasley. Together with their twin sons Kuno and Hugo they live in Fore Close, just off Diagon Alley and not far from the premises of Weasleys' Wizards' Wheezes. Winky the house-elf has been "loaned" to the family and is helping Lois cope with living as a Muggle in a magical world.

Harry - still blind, since he refuses to have his eyes removed in order to have magical eyes implanted - is working in the archives of the Ministry of Magic, together with Draco's ghost. With Kreacher's help he's also taking care of his son James-Hermes, while Ginny is abroad playing for the Holyhead Harpies.

Draco's son Scorpius is living with his mother, Hannah Abbott, in Diagon Alley near the Leaky Cauldron. During the holidays Hannah's fiancé, Neville Longbottom, is staying with them.

Now what?

Will Hermione ever pick up a wand again? How was Severus changed in the Realm of Death? What will Lucius Malfoy do, when he finally discovers that Draco returned as a ghost? Why is Harry so adamant not to lose his blind eyes? Where are the last remaining Death Eaters? Can the rogue Necromancers of the Church that are still on the loose be captured? What is Cornelius Fudge up to? Who is sabotaging Weasleys' Wizards' Wheezes? Would you trust Pius Thicknesse to lead the negotiations of the new treaties with the Church? What is the new mission of the Little Knights?

Those and many other questions will (eventually) be answered in this story.

Once again I will be writing this on the fly, without a beta-reader, and in the format of a virtual penny dreadful, that is, in many short chapters of exactly one thousand words as counted by MS Word.

**oooOooo**

**The story in fandom acronyms: **HP, AU, Post-DH, EWE, Snape!Lives, HG/SS, X-over, H/C, romance, adventure, horror

* * *

**oooOooo**

**Nothing Good Will Come of That**

Hermione frowned at the door in front of her. As far as she remembered, there was no door here, least of all the door to the library. But there it was. A door. Right across from the entrance to the quarters she shared with her husband. And it looked just like the entrance to the library on the fourth floor.

While Hermione was still hesitating in the middle of the corridor, frowning, Crookshanks suffered from no such compunctions. He went straight for the door and started scratching at the age-darkened oak-wood.

Hermione's frown deepened.

Although she knew that Crookshanks would be perfectly behaved, she still wasn't sure how she felt about her cat being allowed to accompany her into the library. It was by special dispensation from Headmistress McGonagall and – to Hermione's shock and surprise – librarian Irma Pince, that Crooks was permitted to stay with her all the time, even when she was working in the Restricted Section.

While Hermione had long since abandoned the notion that cats didn't belong in beds, she used to have higher standards where libraries were concerned. And then there was the acute awareness that she was being singled out, that allowances were made for her … her handicaps. Her Gryffindor stubbornness rebelled against that kind of royal treatment. Yet somehow she couldn't bring herself to argue against it in this case. Because she _was_ grateful to have Crookshanks with her. He had helped her out of more than one tight spot in the last months, when being wandless in a magic castle had ended with her – She swallowed hard. _Locked in._

With the countless secret rooms and passages, that happened to everyone on a semi-regular basis. Even teachers got lost now and again. Of course _they_ were not found in a nearly catatonic state when someone finally came to set them free. The magical signature of a teacher's wand would open nearly all doors, gates, entrances, exits and passageways in the castle.

Hermione scowled at the door.

The castle was trying to be nice. It was a long way to the fourth floor and the library, and the stack of books she had retrieved from her study was heavy when you couldn't float it with a spell. And it was only one of three stacks she had to return to the library.

She sighed deeply. Not that she wasn't grateful to the castle, but every time it went out of its way to make things easier for her, she wondered if she still belonged here at all. She bit down on her lip.

_Think of Sunday, _she told herself firmly. She'd dragged Severus outside and right up to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to look at the daffodil meadow she'd discovered only a few days ago. _Joy and happiness. _They had embraced and kissed, and she had sworn to him that they would be just fine.

_One day,_ she amended with another sigh. _Can't expect no miracles._

Somehow that qualification had been easier to bear outside, in Severus' arms, and in the bright spring sunshine. Today, weighed down by Tuesday doldrums and her books, being mollycoddled by the castle like the magically challenged person that she was, her optimism wavered.

Crookshanks meowed expectantly and scratched at the door again.

"Yes, Crooks, you're right. I'm coming, _I'm coming."_ Hermione gripped the door handle. "Thank you, Hogwarts," she said softly. Chewing on her lower lip once more, she quickly glanced down the corridors to reassure herself that she was unobserved. Then she leant against the wood and pressed a quick kiss on it.

The door swung open and revealed a spiral staircase. As soon as she set foot on the first step, it began to move, slowly rising higher and higher, just like the staircase that led to the office of the Headmistress. Hermione smiled. This was certainly much more convenient than braving the volatile staircases at the centre of Hogwarts. They had a mind of their own, a nasty sense of humour, and they didn't seem to care much for the plights of the new wandless inhabitant of the castle.

Hermione shifted the weight of the books in her arms, and mentally reviewed her to-do-list for the day. _First, return the books she'd taken down to her quarters over the weekend. Second, check the ledger with the fines. Third, continue dusting the shelves in the Restricted Section …_

**oooOooo**

In a pretty, half-timbered townhouse in Fore Close, Ron Weasley put down the Daily Prophet with a disgusted THWAP!

Lois looked up from her task of spooning banana mush into Kuno's mouth. She tried to ignore the fact that Winky was already done with Hugo and that neither boy nor house-elf looked any worse for wear – while Kuno's enthusiasm for his food had left traces of mush spread over his face, his bib, and his mother's blouse.

"Can you believe it?" Ron asked, the tips of his ears reddening with outrage. _"Cornelius Fudge_ is running for president of the EMU! As if he didn't cause enough harm as Chairman of the OHMM."

"Hmm?" Lois asked, distracted by Kuno's waving little fists. At the last moment she managed to snatch the bowl away from him. "Oh, all right," she groaned. "Winky, would you take over, please?"

The house-elf beamed. A snap of her fingers and both Lois and her son were clean. Winky picked up the spoon and Kuno squealed merrily.

Lois shook her head and turned to Ron. "What's up with the European Magical Union?" she asked. "And that Fudge, isn't he the chairman of the Office for Harmonious Magical Markets who was giving you and George so much trouble last year?"

Ron growled deep in his throat and the figures in the wizarding photograph on the first page of the Daily Prophet recoiled with fear.

"Exactly. And now that git is running for President!" Ron scowled at the paper. "Mark my words," he announced, sounding just like his father. "Nothing good will come of that."

**oooOooo**

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**A/N: **Here we go again! Just one chapter for starters, because I'm still plotting ... but I thought some of you would appreciate this.


	2. Guardian Angel

**Guardian Angel**

Severus rapped on the door, yanked it open and strode inside without asking or waiting for permission.

Minerva sat at the huge claw-footed desk, a cup of tea near her right hand, her glasses perched disapprovingly near the tip of her nose. The fingers of her left hand were drumming an agitated rhythm near the upper left-hand corner of the Daily Prophet.

"Not happy with the British candidate for one of the highest offices the wizarding world has to offer?" he sneered.

Minerva's lips thinned. She jerked off her glasses and rubbed her forehead in frustrated circles.

"I hear everyone at the Ministry rejoiced when Fudge turned his back on British bureaucracy," Snape went on mercilessly.

"No doubt about that, Severus, no doubt at all. And it is disconcerting to say the least to see Fudge rise like that on the European level." The headmistress sniffed lightly. "I must say, I am a little surprised that he has the means for a campaign of that scale."

"Perhaps he … _fudged_ a bit?" Severus raised an eyebrow. "Whatever he's up to, I promise you that all of us will be even more _surprised_ if he wins and that educational reform he's been going on about is implemented," Severus added sourly and sat down in one of the visitors' chairs.

The headmistress shuddered. Then she fixed him with her penetrating gaze. He felt the same need to squirm under her intense scrutiny that he had experienced as a first year and scowled at her. "May I surprise you even more and say that I haven't come to argue European politics with you?" he started, uncomfortably aware of how bitter he sounded.

Minerva held up her hand to stop him. "Severus," she said. "I do hope you know that it is not your fault that Andromeda signed that treaty?"

His scowl deepened. "I am aware that the whole Wizengamot voted in favour of the treaty," he replied curtly.

Minerva sighed. "Severus, while it _is_ true that the conditions of the Vatican for opening renegotiations of the Pacta _and_ their cooperation concerning that rescue mission influenced the decision, the British signature of the EMU treaties hinged on more than those particular factors."

"And now _Pius Thicknesse_ is in charge of those renegotiations!" Severus exploded, his angry words belying his earlier statement that he was not interested in talking politics.

"Yes," Minerva agreed wearily. "I know. – Now, why did you want to talk to me, if it wasn't about wizarding politics?"

"I wanted to discuss the wards of the school with you," Severus announced. "We should revise them and replace some."

Minerva frowned. Now he had her complete attention. "What do you have in mind and why?"

"Two things," Severus said. "I want to add a layer of Necromantic wards with Alina's and Harry's help. And I want Abbé Nihel to bless every godforsaken inch of the school."

**oooOooo**

_"Barret, shut up,"_ Alina's quill wrote in letters that were angular with anger. _"Just stop it."_

But one look at Crudass' mutinous expression told her that he wasn't willing to let this go. Ever since she'd come to one of the Army meetings holding hands with Cato, Crudass had been a pain in the arse. Or, as Cato put it, illustrating perfectly just how he had acquired his nickname. Alina knew why, but that didn't help. So her Gryffindor mate was jealous of her Ravenclaw boyfriend. What the hell was she supposed to do about that? She couldn't stop liking Cato just to please Barret, after all!

"He's right, though," Prue piped up, her silvery quill adding girly flourishes to her parchment. She flushed with shame and couldn't meet Alina's eyes. But her quill continued to spell out for Alina what she wanted to say anyway.

_"Professor Snape is scary."_

Cato laughed at that. "And it took you all of four years to realise that?"

Usually as modest as he was smart, sometimes even Cato's patience wore thin. Alina snorted silently.

_what's got u so scared all of a sudden?_ she inquired.

Crudass, Prue, Alyah and Percely exchanged covert glances. Slowly this behaviour was beginning to seriously get on Alina's nerves. They were supposed to be knights, not wimps who were scared of a perfectly nice teacher. Turning her eyes to the ceiling of the Room of Requirement, Alina waited until the four of them had finally jostled Percely to the front. At that she really, really, really wanted to huff noisily_. Hiding behind a fifth year Hufflepuff. Oh yeah, those were knights indeed._

Percely flicked his wand and his parchment unrolled right next to his face. His quill was frayed at the end, as if he was sucking on it. Alina wrinkled her nose.

_so what's so scary 'bout him??_ she gestured impatiently at Percely's parchment. She could never read his lips. He mumbled.

_"He has no shadow anymore."_

_yeah … and your point is?_

The others just stared at her.

Alina felt an irresistible urge to smack her head against the nearest hard surface. She buried her face in her hands, while her quill started writing again.

_Also, he HAS a shadow._ The quill hesitated. _It's just … detachable._

She glimpsed Cato's lips – quivering with suppressed laughter. Professor Snape's shadow was a much discussed topic between the two of them.

"Detachable?" Judging from how Prue rounded her lips and the way Crudass flinched, her friend's voice had just soared one or two octaves upwards. _Sometimes being deaf is a blessing and not a curse,_ Alina thought. Her quill fluffed its feather huffily at the others, before it started writing again.

_he's been that way since he came back i think_

_"That's unnatural,"_ the quill of Barret Cruddace scratched on his parchement. _"And dangerous."_

"I wonder where his shadow is."Prue shivered.

Alina wanted to groan, but no sound emerged from her mouth. Her parchment dropped and spread out on the ground – her way of whispering.

_his shadow's with hermione, you idiots_

_he's watching over her_

**oooOooo**

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**A/N: **Thank you very much for your very many enthusiastic comments. I only hope you won't be disappointed.


	3. A Sad World

**A Sad World**

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy? May I introduce your new intern, Miss Astoria Greengrass?" That was the smooth voice of Theodore Nott, the new assistant of the Minister of Magic. And the cool draught laced with a hint of ambergris and honey heralded the entrance of Miss Astoria Greengrass, the new intern in the archival dungeons of the Ministry of Magic.

Harry wondered what crime Astoria had committed to end up in the darkest bowels of the Ministry. Not that he was in a position to judge just how dark it was down here.

He heard a female gasp and thought he felt the slight ebbing and flow of magical energy that belonged to Draco's ghostly manifestation. Then long, slender fingers curled around his right hand.

"Mr. Potter." Her polite smile was audible. He wondered if she was as blond as her older sister. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Harry snorted softly. "I rather doubt that. Your sister died fighting for the _other_ side."

The hand dropped away.

"I am not my sister." The syllables were suddenly tight, almost hoarse, squeezed through a throat constricting with tears.

All of a sudden, Harry felt weary. Five years, and still the wounds of the war were not healed or forgotten. He inhaled deeply. He realised that he rather liked her perfume. "I'm sorry, Miss Greengrass. Welcome to the dungeons of the Ministry."

**oooOooo**

"Do you think her sister's and her parents' unfortunate affiliations were enough to get her dumped down here in the dungeons?" Harry asked later.

Draco sighed, an audible shrug. "Shouldn't think so, really. It's been five years. She's two years younger than Daphne and she wasn't in Slytherin."

_Five years._ Harry rubbed the snitch-shaped scar on his forehead. It certainly didn't feel like that to him. Maybe it never would.

"She wasn't?" Harry raised his head, curiosity roused.

"No." A faint breeze told him that the ghost was shaking his head. Draco's every move was accompanied by a faint chill. In a way it was easier to work with him than with a living person … though more often than not those were noisy and clumsy enough that Harry didn't really need eyes to be aware of each of their gestures and movements.

"She was in Hufflepuff. Like Hannah. An _'embarrassment',_ Daphne called her."

"You like her," Harry stated with a slight smirk.

The icy blast that made the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end was answer enough.

"You really do!"

The silence lengthened.

Then: "She … offered to shake my hand. And she didn't flinch when I touched her. Most live ones do, you know. Except you and Severus. And Headmistress McGonagall."

"Guts, huh?" Harry grinned. "Are you sure she was in Hufflepuff?"

"Quite," was the curt answer. "I wonder how she ended up as an archive intern …"

**oooOooo**

Ginny was in a snit. He could smell it, before she even said the first word.

Somehow, her scent changed when she was angry. He still couldn't quite say how, but it did. It tasted red and acrid.

He tried to remember red. The light of the evening sun on his lids. The way he'd stared at it through the bars of his window in Privet Drive. Juicy, sweet, watery water melon, shared with Ron and Hermione on a hot summer's day at the Burrow. Pain searing through his scar and his forehead.

The soft flesh between Ginny's thighs …

"What?" he asked distractedly.

"WHAT?!" his wife yelled, loud enough to wake James-Hermes, who'd had trouble falling asleep that night anyway. Harry flinched.

"I asked if the results from that Muggle specialist have arrived yet."

Harry winced. So that was why he'd had the feeling that he had forgotten something important for the last three days.

_"Uh…_ Ginny … I'm really –"

A _fwap!_ of silky Quidditch robes hitting the leather of the old sofa told him that she was slumping against the backrest.

"You didn't go," she stated. Her voice sounded harsh and disappointed.

"I … _uh…_ Ginny –"

"Sometimes I really don't understand you, Harry," she said wearily. "We've been waiting for that appointment for months! Do you _want _to stay blind? Don't you _want_ to see your son's smile?"

**oooOooo**

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron sighed and rubbed his eyes, before blinking blearily at the latest stack of parchment specifying regulations applicable to _'magical items intended to cause amusement and/or entertainment through charms and spells of standard 1b) and below, registered with the local wizarding authority and the European Office for Fun and Filking'._

"That's OFF indeed. And why is it called _'Filking'_ anyway?"

"Are you done with the accounts?" George ducked into the back room of Weasleys' Wizards' Wheezes.

"I wish," retorted Ron. "I haven't even finished figuring out which of these new regulations and restrictions actually apply to our products." He groaned. "Gred, I'm no good at this Legalese slang. I think we need an appointment with Loxweild-Spalt."

George grimaced. "Is that really necessary?"

"If we don't want to lose our concession, I think it is."

"Merlin's hairy bollocks!"

"And the crab lice in between." Sometimes part-owning a shop for practical jokes of the magical kind was not half as much fun as Ron had once thought it would be. "And what's all that stuff you've got there?"

George's eyes narrowed dangerously as he dumped an armful of magical candies into the garbage bin. "Campaign gifts," he explained, his voice rife with loathing. "Though I can't see why perfectly good chocolate that suddenly turns into the letters F-U-D-G-E in your throat should make you vote for him. Really. If you ask me, that stuff is bloody dangerous."

He cast a quick _Evanesco _at the bin. "I bet somewhere a nice little old lady has already choked to death on that fudge. Or at least lost her teeth. And all because of Bertie Botts and his new investor from the States. I tell you, little brother, it's a sad world we live in. A sad world."

**oooOooo**

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**A/N: **Oh, and if you take a look at my forums, you might find a new topic that could be of interest to you. Link is at the top of my profile page.


	4. Just a Little Spell

**Just a Little Spell**

Now it was Minerva's turn to raise her eyebrows. "No Pagan priestess?"

"I have contacted Augusta Longbottom," Snape replied primly. "She recommends summer solstice as the date for the warding ritual."

That gave the headmistress a pause. "You really _mean_ that, don't you, Severus?" she asked slowly. "You want me to reconfigure _all _of the wards of Hogwarts."

With a nervous gesture, she adjusted her spectacles.

For a long moment, the Potions Master didn't react. He sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the Muggle-style painting behind her.

Minerva herself was used to the strange motionless portrait by now. She could even appreciate the sense of motion created by the wild disarray of brushstrokes and colour. Sometimes she almost fancied that she could detect a familiar twinkle lost between the yellow and blue splashes.

The same could not be said for Severus. He was doing his level best to appear unconcerned, hard and unmoved, but she knew him too well. She had watched him grow up, after all. She'd seen him first as an awkward, neglected child, then as a gangly, gifted teenager. Later as an angry young man, desperate, in and out of love. And finally as an adult, twisted, bowed, nearly broken. And finally: happy, at peace. If only for a few short weeks. She resisted the impulse to hug him. That was not her style, and he would not appreciate the gesture.

"Why?" she asked instead, turning ruthlessly back to the matter at hand.

"I told you about the encounter with Voldemort in the Fifth Precinct," Severus replied curtly. "I am convinced that he will find a way to return. And _when_ he manages to return, it will be as one of the Greater Dead, a demon of immense power – and hatred. He will return to the place where he was defeated and he will seek revenge. The present wards are all well and good for keeping unruly children inside and clumsy Death Eaters outside. But chocolate custard would be more effective to stop a demon of the Greater Dead."

"Do you absolutely have to be so blunt?" Minerva inquired faintly.

But Severus only scowled at her. She sighed. A cold, weary ache pulsed deep in her spine. _Oh, Albus,_ she thought. _I am years younger than you were, but sometimes I feel not just weary, but plain old …_

"Very well," she said. "You know that I cannot do this alone. I need the Heads of all Four Houses, as well as Hagrid and Filch. Since you have already contacted Abbé Nihel and Augusta, I expect you to arrange the details of those rituals with them. Of course I want to be apprised of exactly what you are planning in time. I shall ask Sybill to determine the most opportune date for the renewal of the magical wards."

Severus snorted softly, but he didn't protest. That (as well as his willingness to ask Augusta Longbottom of all people for help) told her more than anything just how serious he was.

"When do you expect …" She couldn't continue and had to swallow hard. "When do you expect Voldemort to return?"

Severus' lips thinned. "Tomorrow or in five hundred years." He shook his head, the lines in his face deepening. "I wish I knew, Minerva. Ask Sybill. Her guess is as good as mine, maybe better." He hesitated, then he added in a soft whisper, "He wanted to kill me. Even more than Harry. He's driven by hatred and revenge. He will be worse than he ever was in life."

"And he is already dead," Minerva remarked, shivering lightly. "We cannot even hope to kill him this time around."

Severus inclined his head.

**oooOooo**

"Here, would you take Kuno for a moment?" Lois asked. "I think Hugo needs new nappies."

Molly smiled. "No, dear," she said. "Just stay where you are and enjoy your tea. It's just a little spell. I won't need a minute!" She pulled her wand from the pocket of her apron, picked up Hugo and quickly carried him out of the room.

Lois suppressed a sigh. Hiding her face against Kuno's round, warm belly, elicited happy squeals from the baby. _Of course. Just a little spell. It works like a charm. And Winky doesn't even need a wand._

Muriel Mugwort stopped rocking James-Hermes on her knees and adjusted her hold on the giggling infant. She fixed Lois with a sharp glance. "It's not easy, is it?"

For a second every fibre of Lois' body tightened. Promptly Kuno started fussing, and her shoulders slumped. "No, it isn't," she muttered morosely. When she faced her boss, her lips curled into a wry grin. "I thought it would be like living in another country, another culture. I know quite a few people who came to England to live and work here. Others who went abroad, sometimes quite exotic locations – Africa, India, the Yemen." She shrugged. "However, this …" She made a vague gesture with her free hand. "It's not just another culture – in fact, the _culture's_ not even all that different."

Lois took a deep breath. _"I am different._ I feel as if I'm disabled. I can't even go to work on my own. I need Winky to take me, or Ron. And when I insist on changing the twins by hand, Winky gives me this indulgent little smile." Lois groaned. "I thought I'd be used to it by now! But I'm not. And sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be."

Lois fell silent. When Molly returned with a clean and chirpy Hugo in her arms, her smile felt forced and brittle on her face.

It was not that she wasn't happy. _She was!_ She loved Ron. She adored her twins. She was thrilled with her job. And she appreciated being allowed to live in Alina's world.

But by now she _also_ knew that she would never truly belong here. And she was not at all prepared for the sense of crushing despair that came with this realisation.

**oooOooo**

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**A/N: **The drabble challenge in my forums is still open. Follow the link at the bottom of my profile and request a drabble for a missing scene from "Apprentice"!


	5. New Jobs

**New Jobs**

Astoria Disapparated from London to the hill above Greengrass Grange. After a long day deep in the bowels of the Ministry, for most part in the dark vaults of the archive, she longed for sunlight and open skies.

When she appeared on the hill above the Grange, the sky smiled blue and white. The gentle landscape of Devon sprawled before her, lush with spring.

For a moment Astoria just stood and breathed, inhaling air rich with the scents of damp earth and green grass.

That day had certainly turned into a surprise! To start with, she hadn't anticipated to be interviewed by the boyfriend of her deceased sister. It had given her quite a turn to see Theo again. The last time they'd met was at her sister's funeral pyre. And now he was working for the Minister of Magic? She sighed. Some people were like cream, they always ended up swimming at the top. Theo certainly had the suave, slimy personality that fit a job like the Minister's personal assistant.

He'd grilled her thoroughly; studying her OWL and NEWT certificates as well as perusing all parchments that documented her previous work experience. Merlin, she'd barely managed to maintain her studied air of elegant aloofness then. She'd been _so_ close to turning into a puddle of gibbering goo on the Persian rug that graced the floor of Theo's office.

Her father in Azkaban, her sister dead, her mother lost to gin and depression, the family fortune seized, she knew that it was only a matter of weeks until the Goblins would evict them from the ancient home of the Greengrass family, if she didn't manage to find a job with a solid income.

Another deep breath.

_She had that job now._

When Theo had told her his decision, she had started crying. She winced internally, remembering the expression of haughty disdain that had passed over Theo's face, before he'd conjured up a handkerchief of lavender silk and offered it to her.

Following Theo downstairs to the archives, Astoria had believed that nothing could overcome the feeling of shocked euphoria that was coursing through her body.

How wrong she'd been.

_Again._

_Draco Malfoy had returned as ghost?_

She'd positively stopped dead in her tracks. And gaped. Like a lobalug. And only prevented herself from committing yet another terrible faux pas at the very last moment. You simply did _not_ greet a ghost with _"But I thought you are dead?"_

Completely stunned, she'd ended up simply offering her hand to him. She shivered with the memory at the icy touch of the ghost's translucent fingers, her nipples pressing uncomfortably against the front of her robes.

Astoria shook her head. _Why has mother never mentioned Draco's return?_ In spite of everything that had happened, Queenie Greengrass was still thick as thieves with Narcissa Malfoy. Astoria brushed off a measure of archival dust from her robes, then halted. _Could it be that Draco's mother didn't know that her son had come back as a ghost?_

_No,_ Astoria thought. _That's impossible._

But she'd definitely ask her mother all the same why she'd never mentioned that before.

**oooOooo**

Hermione sneezed. Once, twice. Eyes streaming with tears, she waited for the cloud of dust to settle.

She balled her hands into fists to resist the temptation of rubbing her eyes. They were already red and inflamed. A detour to the hospital wing for some Eyebright Potion was definitely in order before she returned to the dungeons tonight.

Finally she put down the Diricawl duster and stepped back to survey her handiwork.

At least cleaning the books in the Restricted Section was one of the few tasks at Hogwarts that really _had_ to be done Muggle-style. These books were much too dangerous to be cleaned with magic or by students. And Irma Pince wasn't getting any younger. She really appreciated having an assistant, even an incapacitated, wandless witch.

Hermione smiled at the shelves. Not single mote of dust or bit of lint was in sight. The age-darkened oak wood shone with polish. The leather bindings of the bestiaries gleamed in the dim light of the library. The warm, woodsy scent of Severus' book polish (lanolin, beeswax, cedarwood oil, murtlap solution and petroleum) pervaded the room.

_Not bad for eight hours of slaving away,_ Hermione mused, stretching the kinks out of her back with a groan. _Time to call it a day._

The shadow who lingered in the corner behind her seemed to agree and faded away.

"Crooks?" Hermione called softly. "Let's go!" The cat uncurled and leapt down from the window sill.

On their way out, they stopped at the librarian's desk. Madam Pince was poring over the fines ledger with a pinched expression on her face.

"Irma? I just wanted to tell you that I'm done for the day, so you can restore the wards. I finished the bestiaries today."

Irma looked up and to Hermione's surprise a genuine smile smoothed the lines of her wrinkled face. "Thank you, dear. You're the best assistant I've had since young Severus left me to pursue a Potions career."

That gave Hermione a start. "Severus used to work here?"

Irma nodded. "Oh yes. He never went home for the short hols, you see. And after his third year he worked for me during that time." She indicated the phial of amber book polish in Hermione's hand. "He created that potion for me when he was in his fifth year." The librarian's sunken cheeks dimpled. "As a birthday present."

Irma's smile faded away. "Of course that way he also gained access to books he should never have seen, much less touched at that young age." The librarian stared off into the distance. "Sometimes I wonder if things had turned out differently, had I not allowed him into the Restricted Section too soon …"

After a moment she shook herself, coming back into the present.

"Tomorrow I will show you different ways of cataloguing the books you cleaned today. Bring parchment and quills."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The book polish is based on the recipe reputedly used by the British Museum. Diricawls are from "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them". In one of the first drafts "Queenie" was Daphne Greengrass' names - I figured that therefore it is suitable to give it to her mother in this AU.

I hope you liked today's set of chapters!


	6. Shadows …

**Shadows …**

"Just one more thing –"

Severus had been about to rise. Now he paused, on the edge of his seat.

"Yes?" He glared at her impatiently.

Minerva ignored his scowl. Instead she allowed a measure of concern to show on her face. "Where is your shadow?" she asked.

Severus slumped back. Briefly, a shadow flickered across his eyes. Then he blinked and his face was schooled to impassivity again. Since Hermione's rescue the man had not relaxed for a second. And if he slept more than three hours a night, she'd be very much surprised.

"In the library I presume," he muttered.

"Ah. With Hermione?"

Severus hesitated. "I … I think so. A shadow cannot hear or see or smell. However, I seem to – to _feel _her presence almost as if she and I were in the same room. Not always. But most of the time since she was well enough to leave our quarters."

"So you cannot control it?" she asked. "When has this … phenomenon manifested for the first time?"

"No. – I am not sure," he replied curtly.

She suppressed the desire to roll her eyes. Getting information out of this man was sometimes as difficult as extracting teeth the Muggle-style. "Severus, I am sure you are aware of the fact that manifestations of new magical abilities or phenomenons need to be registered with the Ministry?"

"So I can be carted off to St. Mungo's to be poked and prodded and then forced to reveal even more intimate details to be filed away in Ministry ledgers?" he snarled.

Her lips twitched. "All of that, I expect."

She suspected that he had come to the conclusion that the phenomenon posed no danger for anyone and was now trying to discover just what it was and how it could be used on his own. A desire she sympathized with completely. However … "Severus, the students have started noticing. There are rumours, and some of them are quite … disturbing."

He lowered his head and wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. "There are always rumours."

"Quite so," Minerva agreed. "But Alina Petrel has been here to see me. She is worried. Apparently some students have got it into their heads that you made a pact with a demon."

"I thought that was common knowledge," Severus said bitterly.

"Please, Severus. You know as well as I do that the Ministry will have to take action if this is reported. And with those EMU registration laws looming, I dare say that waiting for the Ministry to come knocking at your door will make the proceedings much more unpleasant than filing a report yourself."

"They are fools," Severus said. "Fools to believe that registration, rules and regulations can make the wizarding world a safe place. Magic has always been dangerous and always will be. Forcing vampires to carry an ID and organise public Auror guarded dinners won't change that."

"Probably not," Minerva agreed. "However, the renegotiations of the Pacta are the greatest political opportunity for wizarding world in centuries."

"That is exactly what I am afraid of." Severus sighed. "At least Abbé Nihel knows what he is doing."

As Bishop Brown's personal secretary, Abbé Nihel was now the spearhead of the Vatican's commission during the negotiations for new treaties between the Church and the wizarding world.

Minerva realised that there was no reasoning with her stubborn Potions master today. Inwardly she sighed. Outwardly, she fixed him with her best stare, the one that told everony that she remembered them as first years, including every single detention they had ever earned at Hogwarts. "I have arranged an appointment for you at St. Mungo's next week, parallel to Hermione's check-up. Loxweild-Spalt will be there to handle the paperwork."

**oooOooo**

He made sure that he was late for dinner. The ceiling of the Great Hall was dark, showing a cloudy evening sky. A storm was blowing in from the Atlantic. But the Hall itself was brightly illuminated by hundreds of hovering candles.

Severus entered with billowing robes and strode imperiously towards the High Table. Out of the corner of his eye he observed the students. Most of them ducked and wouldn't meet his eyes. Others stared with expressions of fearful relief to a spot on the floor, slightly behind him and to his left. Alina smiled.

Walking up to the High Table like that afforded Severus the opportunity to take a good look at Hermione. Under a strict regime concerning diet and exercise, she was finally gaining weight and thanks to long walks every day she was not quite as pale anymore. But she still tired easily. And she still wouldn't touch a wand. Tonight her eyes looked slightly puffy and rathter more liquid than usual. He frowned. _Eyebright Potion? What had she been up to?_

"Severus!" Hermione greeted him with an amused smile. "What an entrance. For a second I felt almost like a scared first year again."

But even as she smiled, her gaze lingered on his shadow for a moment. So she had noticed that, too? Why hadn't she mentioned it to him?

**oooOooo**

"You are tired," he murmured later, in the quiet of their bedroom. They sat on the wide windowseat, looking out across the lake.

During Hermione's first days back at Hogwarts, when she had still been too weak to venture outside, this had become their evening ritual.

Hermione curled into him. She was leaning against his chest and he was holding her tightly, his right arm wrapped around her body. His left hand curled around a goblet of red wine, while Hermione idly stroked the fingers of his right. The small movements caused her breasts to press against his arm. He rested his cheek against the unruly mess she called hair.

"Hmm," Hermione agreed, taking a sip from her own goblet. "Yes."

"Did the Eyebright help?"

"You worry too much."

He tugged at a brown curl. "Can you blame me?"

Instead of answering, she captured his hand again and kissed his palm.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The drabble challenge in my forums is still open. Follow the link at the bottom of my profile and request a drabble for a missing scene from "Apprentice"! And I have already filled the first requests: take a look at my new story "Missing Scenes".


	7. … And Light

**… And Light**

Later they lay naked, limbs entwined. The wild staccato of their heartbeats pulsed through their bodies, while mingling sweat cooled heated skin. Severus' heart calmed down first. Sometimes Hermione wondered if he could simply _order_ his heart to beat in a certain rhythm. Knowing Severus, she wouldn't put that beyond him.

She lay halfway across him. When she moved, her nipples – still tight and aroused – prickled with the sensation of his chest hair rubbing against her. He was by no means hirsute – his chest sported just a sprinkling of coarse curls. Mostly black, with just a touch of silver, and very male. She sighed. She loved feeling him like that.

His long fingers curled around her waist, pressing her closer against him.

"Your heart feels like a bird," he murmured, "frantically beating its wings. You are delicious, Hermione."

She reached up and stroked back his limp, sweat-drenched hair. "Sweet talker."

Then she propped herself up on her elbows and gently traced the harsh lines around his mouth. Not even the ecstasy of orgasm could smooth them away anymore.

"Do you want to talk about why you were late for dinner?"

**oooOooo**

He stared up into her eyes. In the darkness of the bedroom there appeared as dark as his own. When had she stopped demanding answers for the questions that were on her mind? But he knew – not the hour or the day of course. Hermione had changed in the long months of her imprisonment. They had not known each other very well before she was captured, and now …

"You know, in a way we're on even ground now," Hermione remarked suddenly. "Both broken, but not destroyed."

"Hermione –" He wanted to say that she was not broken, but he couldn't lie to her. _The brightest witch of her age … _the memory of Remus' words was taunting him.

"Ginny has written to me again. She had another argument with Harry about his eyes. He _'forgot' _to go to that Muggle specialist Lois found. Do you know why he refuses to seek further treatment? As I understand Muriel, there's at least a chance that removing his eyes and implanting magical replacements would allow him to see again."

Her candid manner made him smile, reminding him of a much younger Hermione, giving him hope.

"Maybe broken, but perhaps not beyond repair?" He trailed a finger from her temple to her ear, down to her throat.

That was, in a nutshell, what they had promised each other time and again since her rescue. The first time he held her naked in his arms again, the first time she ventured outside after her long captivity, in December in the labyrinth, just a few days ago at the daffodil meadow. And if fate allowed it, they would keep doing just that for a long time. Until maybe, one day, her wish would be granted, and they would be _– just fine._

Severus sighed. "Hermione, you just said it. We're all of us broken. And all of us deal with it in different ways. Leave him be. While there _is_ a certain time frame for the suggested procedure to be successful, there's still time until Harry must decide. Time that all of us should grant him."

Hermione rolled off him and curled up in the crook of his arm. Her bushy hair tickled the sensitive skin of his throat. "And?"

"What _'and'_?"

"There's something else. I can hear it in your voice."

When had she become so observant? He closed his eyes. He knew, of course. When the monotony of her days had been so cruel that she had to pay attention to the tiniest differences around her or go insane.

"I suspect that he may … still see … _something._ Though nothing of the living world."

"Oh no!" Hermione gasped. Then he heard the soft sound of her lower lip being sucked inward.

For a while they lay silent in the darkness.

Then, quiety, she asked. "Do you think he can see Draco?"

Severus shrugged, an awkward gesture that made her hair tickle him even more. He couldn't help squirming a little.

"There's something else," he said slowly. "Since we're already talking."

"Your shadow. Is that why you were late for dinner? Minerva was late, too."

"So you noticed." _Stating the obvious. Stalling. I must be losing my touch._ Severus sighed and laid his forearm over his eyes.

"You're scared, aren't you?" she whispered. She pulled herself up on her knees and dragged his arm away from his face. "Severus? This – the shadow – that's because of – it's –"

"It is _not_ your fault," he stated firmly. "Succumbing to the combined _Imperius _of five powerful Necromancers without going insane is quite a feat. And the consequences of Harry's and my actions in Death are most certainly not your fault."

She exhaled a shuddering breath. "Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally …" She trailed off. He found her hand and squeezed it tightly.

How he wished there was more he could do, or say. In the end, he decided to simply answer her question. "I do believe it is a result of almost drowning in the Fifth Precinct. Those waters have a strong metamorphic effect. As a matter of fact, they may very well be responsible for whatever it is that Harry is still able to see."

His left hand crept up to the bridge of his nose. "For a long time I wasn't aware of what was happening myself. Only … that I could sense you as if you were in the same room. Your warmth, even though I felt … strangely cold, naked, exposed. Then I noticed that my shadow was gone. That is all I'm aware of right now." He scowled. "But maybe we'll know more next week. Minerva has ordered me to accompany you to St. Mungo's on Thursday."

"Oh dear. Poor Severus. To be poked and prodded by the Healers." She kissed the tip of his nose. "Don't worry. I'll hold your hand."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you very much for reading and for your support. A sequel is sometimes more difficult to write than the first part of a story, so I'm very grateful for your input.

I hope you liked today's set of chapters!


	8. Careening Careers

**Careening Careers**

On Tuesday, Corny, the lone house-elf remaining at Greengrass Grange woke Astoria at six o'clock sharp. Her first day at the Ministry of Magic lay ahead.

She alternated her shower between hot and cold, scrubbing briskly. The soap and shampoo were a bit lumpy – she'd never been a deft hand at potions – but at least their scent was lovely. She used the best lavender the garden of the Grange had to offer.

Then she stood in her dressing room, wondering what to wear. The most precious gowns (like all other valuables at the Grange) had been sold to cover the costs of her parents' trials and the resulting fines. But she still had more than enough to choose from. She had inherited her sister's clothes.

_No House colours and no black,_ Astoria thought. _But I _do_ want to look nice … _

_For whom?_ a nasty little voice at the back of her mind inquired. _It's not as if Harry Potter can see you. And ghosts are supposed to be beyond such earthly temptations. _

_Simply for myself, _she argued, staring at the colours and fabrics in front of her. _To celebrate that I have finally a real job. _

Soft grey and pale lavender, she decided. Colours that went well with her colouring. Ash blond hair and silvery eyes – she was a Greengrass, after all. She'd never be as beautiful as Daphne; she was not quite tall enough and a bit too sturdy. But she was no hag, either. And if she could keep up her act, she had at least a vestige of that wretched Greengrass elegance going for her.

"You look beautiful," her mother gushed at breakfast. "Just you wait, you'll be the personal assistant of the Minister in next to no time."

Astoria resisted a groan. "Mother. Theo – Theodore Nott – is the personal assistant of the Minister. I'm an _intern _in the archives."

"But you'll be working at the Ministry!"

"Indeed." An honest smile warmed her face, and she couldn't resist to brag a bit. "And for heroes of the war, no less. For Draco Malfoy's ghost and Harry Potter himself."

Though they hadn't appeared very heroic the day before, she contemplated, the blind man and the ghost down in the dark dungeons of the Ministry …

"Draco Malfoy?" her mother's voice soared shrilly. "But, but he's _dead!"_

Astoria winced. She ought to have broached that topic more carefully … Obviously Draco's continued existence was not common knowledge, and if the Malfoys wanted to keep it a secret, or worse, if the Malfoys were not aware of it at all …

_Stop it. Stop it, _she chided herself. _Nobody _told_ you not to mention Draco. They can't kick you out for that!_

"Yes," Astoria said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "Draco Malfoy. Apparently he returned as a ghost."

_"I never knew …"_ Her mother breathed, shocked. "Why did Narcissa never mention that?" Shock and indignation warred in her immaculate features.

Astoria very nearly grimaced. _"Maybe …_ they don't want people to know?" she suggested.

Her mother mulled that over. Then she sighed. "His _was_ rather an ignominious end, wasn't it? Poor Narcissa. And poor Lucius. And if Draco chose the Ministry as a haunt over Malfoy Manor, of course that would be such an embarrassment … "

**oooOooo**

"Well then, Hannah, what do you want to show me?" George asked.

Hannah Abbott had applied to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to become the contractor for their new line of wizarding sweets.

She had just bought the Leaky Cauldron. And though the pub was as busy as ever (if not more so, thanks to the toilets being cleaner and the food being more wholesome and less dangerous), she needed some extra money. The conditions of the goblin-granted credit she'd taken out at Gringotts to finance the acquisition of the Leaky were quite gruesome. Additionally the pub was subject to taxation in both the wizarding _and_ the Muggle world, and last but not least she really needed to start putting by a little money for Scorpio's schooling.

Hannah took a deep breath. The quality standards demanded by WWW were extremely high. They worked only with the best of the best. She'd spent all of her free time for many weeks on this project. At times she'd expected to find soft sweetmeats growing out of her ears and hard-boiled crunchies coming out of her arse.

"These look like magical delights –" She pointed at a plate heaped with sweetmeats. "And they taste like them, too. For example, these are rich chocolate with bits of candied hazelnut and sprinkled with coconut sugar. But I call them _'Sweet Nothings'._ As soon as you swallow them, they disappear – leaving behind no sugar, no fat, no calories. Witches will _love_ them."

"This is something Teddy Lupin helped me with." A goblet with glittering crystals. _"Cartoon Crystals._ All flavours possible. They turn you into a comic character, complete with speech and thought bubbles. The effect lasts an hour."

"And here's something for adults: _Romance Rounders._ Going out while staying home. Perfect for parents with small children and a tight wallet. Depending on the flavour, they create different illusions. An evening at the beach or in the mountains."

George picked up a chocolate _'nothing'_ and chewed it. His face betrayed nothing. Then he waved his wand over a green rounder. It released a cloud of mist that smelled of forest and coalesced into an image of a lovely, lonely wooden glade. Then George scooped up a handful of crystals.

A second later, a red-haired, grinning Superman turned to Hannah. The words _"You're hired!"_ floated in a speech bubble above his head. "Apply for the patents as soon as possible. The MoM's bad enough, but the OFF and the OHMM at the EMU are a real nightmare. If you need help with the forms, ask Ron."

Hannah beamed "I will. Thank you so much!"

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is always on the lookout for new talents," George said solemnly as they shook hands.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **"Sweet Nothings" are based on an idea by Fileg. "Cartoon Crystals" are derived from a suggestion by Leany. "Romance Rounders" are my own brainchild.

OFF is "the European Office for Fun and Filking"

OHMM is "the European Office for Harmonious Magical Markets"

EMU is "the European Magical Union"


	9. Madness

**Madness**

A few days later, Astoria was about to refile several parchments that she had carefully cleaned and covered with special preservation spells, when she heard raised voices approaching the entrance to the archives.

So far working down here had been pretty lonely. Apart from Harry, and Draco's ghost, she hadn't seen another witch or wizard down here in days. If it were not for regular requests for documents zooming into their dungeons and new stacks of scrolls being delivered every night, she might have wondered if this was a real job at all, and not a professional oubliette.

Whoever was coming to visit the archives was not in a good mood. Hurriedly, Astoria put her parchments away. Even coated in conservation Charms, they were quite fragile and sensitive to magic beyond the wear and tear of the mere passage of time.

"When did that … Why did no one … How could you … been told! … my right! HE'S MY SON, YOU FWOOPING MUDLOVER OF A MINISTER!"

_"Mister_ Malfoy, either you get a grip on yourself this instant, _or_ I will have you thrown out of the Ministry before you can count to three."

With CRASH! the door flew open and a man with silver-white hair stormed into the room, wand and cane raised threateningly. Two watch wizards were hanging onto the sleeves of his robes. The Minister of Magic followed hard on his heels, her face white with rage.

Astoria jumped back, collided with the files cabinet at the back of the main office and stumbled into the narrow space between the cabinet and the wall. Staring at Lucius Malfoy in horror, she stayed where she was and tried not to breathe, doing her very best to turn invisible without actually casting a Disillusionment Charm on herself.

Deep down, she'd always been afraid of Lucius Malfoy. And the man who was coming towards her now positively looked insane. He was rail-thin, his face positively cadaverous. His eyes lay deep in their sockets and glowed with a desperate light.

"Draco!" Lucius Malfoy shouted, spittle flying from his lips, his expression deranged. "Draco! WHERE IS MY SON?"

He stumbled and almost fell down. Leaning heavily on Harry's desk, he stared down at the blind wizard with an expression of uncomprehending agony.

"Draco," he rasped. _"Draco?"_

"He should be here any moment, Mr. Malfoy," Harry replied calmly. But from her vantage point Astoria could see that below the desk, he had his wand pointed steadily at the unexpected visitor. "Please, have a seat."

"I – Draco. Draco is really – Why – how – why did no one – a conspiracy – a damned conspiracy – worse than Voldemort – you – it's you – your fault – all of this – I demand –"

_"Sit. Down."_

The two terse syllables seemed to slam into Malfoy with the force of a spell. He jerked back and sank down on the indicated chair.

Suddenly the icy breeze that indicated a ghost's passage chilled the cold sweat that had begun to pearl on Astoria's forehead even more.

Draco glided to the desk. Somehow he seemed a little more translucent than normally and the elegant folds of his robes appeared just a little hazy.

"Father."

Just one quiet word, and the temperature in the room dropped by at least five degrees. Astoria shivered.

Lucius Malfoy stared at the silvery silhouette of his dead son. He blinked frantically, as if he was unable to make sense of what he was seeing. Even from her corner at the back of the room Astoria could see that the man's lips were quivering. His throat worked frantically, but no sound emerged.

Clattering, his cane and wand dropped to the ground. The wand rolled to the opaque tips of Draco's shoes. Lucius Malfoy's shoulder's shuddered as his tall, thin body convulsed with the force of his weeping.

**oooOooo**

"ARGH! That was _not_ my shadow, you horrid hag of a healer!" Severus Snape flinched as a diagnostic spell seared his skin.

The shadow in question was looming in a corner of the room – where it could not possibly appear, given the lighting conditions. Additionally, while the shadow presented the figure of a man standing tall and tense and fully robed (down to the outline of the tight collar of a frock coat), his owner was lying in naked humiliation on an examination table.

"Hush, Severus. That only _prickled,_ it didn't hurt," Muriel Mugwort scolded the Potions Master. Turning to the door, she called out a question to her assistant in the adjoining room. "Do you have everything recorded, Healer Pye?"

"Yes, Madam, everything crystal." The young man's voice was muted by the door. But nothing could conceal the enthusiasm audible in his words.

"Excellent. I think we have everything we need. You may get dressed again."

When Muriel's gaze drifted over his body, Severus felt heat wash over him and had the distinct impression that he was blushing fiercely under her scrutiny.

"What?" he bit out, as he hurriedly pulled on his pants and snatched up the trousers that went with his black frock coat. "I'm not the centrefold of this month's Playwizard. Kindly turn your lecherous leer elsewhere, dirty old biddy."

The Healer briskly shook her head. "I'll have you know that my appreciation for Mr. Mugwort will in no ways be jeopardized by being forced to observe your skinny arse at a close range. But both you and your wife are too thin. – And then there are your test results.

"Physical _and_ magical," she added meaningfully.

That brought him up short. Severus turned, his vest and shirt momentarily forgotten. "How are Hermione's results?"

Muriel hesitated. "Does she _know_ what you're doing?"

"Do you think I could keep something like that from her?" he asked. Then, bitterly: "Do you think I _would _keep it from her? And just do it? Without her knowledge, without her consent?"

"No," the Healer responded curtly. "But you know I had to ask. – Severus, what you are doing is _madness._ You can't keep that up!"

"I know."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **"fwooping" was invented by the Hissing Harpies (go and look for them and their round robin "I F...ing Do!" at the LiveJournal Community GrangerSnape100!) and is used with permission; it refers to the Fwooper, a bird from "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them", which drives the listener instantly insane.

I hope you liked today's set of chapters!


	10. Shattered

**Shattered**

"Normally I don't discuss the results of examinations when the spouse of the patient is present," Healer Mugwort said, looking from Hermione to Severus and back. Smiling wryly at Severus' instant scowl and the brown bristling of Hermione's hair, she added, "But in your case, I'll make an exception."

"Thank you," Hermione murmured. Severus didn't speak, but his expression softened.

"Let's talk about Severus' condition first. The good news: It is a rare affliction, but not without precedents. The medical term is _'Barrie syndrome'._ After the mediwizard who first researched." Muriel smiled at Hermione. "You may have read about it – Barrie described it in one of his novels that were also published in the Muggle world."

For a moment Hermione stared at the Healer. Then she blinked and gasped. "Peter Pan?!"

Muriel nodded. "That's the one."

"So what is this – this _'Barrie syndrome'?"_ Severus asked. "What do I need to know about it?"

"That would be the bad news," Muriel replied. "We don't really know much about it. It seems to be connected with near-death experiences. And there don't _appear _to be any negative effects on the patient's health." She hesitated, and there was something in the way she looked at Severus that made the tiny hairs at the nape of Hermione's neck stand on edge.

"However," Muriel went on, "there are also much older sources that deal with the same symptoms at least. And these sources …" The Healer sighed. "They intimate that the cause for these particular symptoms may be a _– hmm –_ a fracture, if you will, of the soul. The legends claim that they are the result of a wizard selling his shadow to the devil. That's rubbish, of course."

"But you think that it is possible that –" Hermione paused and had to swallow. "That Severus – that his soul is –"

"Shattered." Mugwort nodded, her gaze warm with sympathy. "That is at least an option I cannot exclude at this point in time."

"What does that mean?" Hermione asked. Her voice sounded too high, and unsteady with fear. Blindly she reached for her husband with her right hand. He did not draw back, but simply sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the Healer.

"Soul magic is one of the most arcane areas of magical theory," Muriel stated. "Rife with superstition and dread. Few wizards ever hear of it outside of fairy tales. Fewer still can be considered experts in the field." Muriel paused. Her gaze flickered to Severus, then back to Hermione. "You knew _three_ such experts, and you are married to a fourth," she added dryly.

"Severus, did you know all that already?" Hermione turned to her husband. Frustration, fear and fury fought within her. "Why did you keep that from me?"

Severus shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't keep anything from you. I'm a Necromancer and Potions Master, not a Healer. I know that Mr. Barrie was an eccentric mediwizard and a writer, but I had no idea about the details of his work. And while I _do_ know the legends Muriel mentioned, I simply did not think of them. Hermione, I am virtually certain that this is the result of being immersed in the metamorphic waters of the Fifth Precinct. If the only damage my soul sustained there is that my shadow doesn't stay put, I can count myself lucky."

"But _is _that the only damage?" Hermione whispered wretchedly. "What if there are other – injuries?"

Severus leant over and drew her against him. "Voldemort existed for many years no less and no _more _insane than he already was, although his soul was thoroughly fractured. There is no reason to believe that this condition – if that's what it is – should affect me beyond the Splinching of my shadow."

Mugwort nodded. "Still, I want to see you here once a month for a check-up. I will also inform Headmistress McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. If you notice any changes at all, I expect you to report them immediately."

Hermione felt Severus stiffen. She drew back. "He'll do that. I promise."

"Severus?"

"Very well," he agreed grudgingly.

"And now …" Healer Mugwort flicked through a sheaf of parchments. "Your test results. I'm not completely happy with the blood tests. The two of you don't eat enough and your stress levels are too high." Muriel looked up. "And then there are the results of the tests concerning your magic."

Hermione froze. She didn't dare to look at the healer. _No._ She _couldn't_ look at her. She couldn't move her head. Suddenly her heart was racing, and her chest felt tight. She tried to swallow, but something constricted her throat.

"The level of _your_ magic is back to normal, Hermione. You have fully recovered from the Leeching Curse that infused the wards of your prison cell. As you are probably very much aware of. The levels of _Severus'_ magic, however, are not at all normal."

A pause. "Hermione?"

Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears. She felt curiously lightheaded, and although she was clinging to the armrests of her chair with a vice-like grip, she could barely feel her icy fingers. She couldn't breathe.

_Oh God, I can't breathe._

"Hermione –" Muriel went on, her voice very gentle. "Severus _cannot_ continue to siphon off the excess of your magic forever. One soul cannot contain the magic of another soul for longer than a few months. Hermione?"

"Hermione?"

That was Severus. Why did his voice sound so far away? She tried to inhale, tried to reply. But she couldn't. She just kept shaking her head, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face all of a sudden.

More questions. Movement. Severus holding her and helping her drink a thick liquid that she dimly recognised as Calming Draught.

Suddenly Muriel's face slid back into focus. Hermione drew a shuddering breath and slumped back against Severus.

"Better?"

Hermione nodded mutely. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, her voice hoarse and thick with tears. "I'm such a coward."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **J.M. Barrie was the author of "Peter Pan", a boy who didn't want to grow up and once in a while lost his shadow. The legend Mugwort refers to is the story "Peter Schlemihl's Remarkable Story" by Adelbert von Chamisso.


	11. Secrets

**Secrets **

Severus stared at the cup of tea that Minerva had pressed on him. His temples throbbed with a tension headache. The day had been quite long and more than trying enough. Thanks to a few drops of Dreamless Sleep, Hermione was asleep in their quarters. But he didn't want her to wake alone.

At last Minerva set the stack of parchments aside and adjusted her square spectacles.

"This very worrying, Severus."

"If that is all you have to say, may I go now?"

"Severus …"

He propped his elbows on his knees and cupped his forehead in his palms. "I am sorry, Minerva. It's been an exhausting day."

"How long has this been going on, Severus?"

"Around Christmas."

The Headmistress took off her glasses and twirled them between her thin fingers. He noticed that even in human form, her nails were rather claw-shaped, though carefully manicured. "I should have noticed the change in your behaviour. All that foolish wand waving all of a sudden." She shook her head. "If I understand correctly, therapy sessions at St. Mungo's once a month will provide temporary relief for Hermione?"

He nodded. "Yes. Chakra stones and acupuncture can be used to release the – magical congestion and draw off excess energy. That will help."

"But it won't be enough." A statement, not a question.

_Merlin, he was so tired._ "No. It won't be. There are several problems that impact Hermione's case. She is a strong witch. Additionally, an environment like Hogwarts – that is completely saturated with magic – acts as feedback-loop that increases energy levels and accelerates the recharging processes. Last but not least, Mugwort says that a common complication of this kind of therapy is also a habituation effect."

"In other words, she _must_ use her magic again," Minerva stated. "Or she will become a danger to herself, and for others."

Silence cloaked the office, while Minerva stared at the report from St. Mungo's. At last, Minerva looked up. She waited for a moment, until she was sure that she had his complete attention. "Severus, I hate to ask this, but I feel that I have to. You know that I am responsible for the safety of everyone here at Hogwarts."

He raised an eyebrow.

Minerva went on, "If there is no other way, can you ma–"

"Make her?" he spat. "Force her to use her magic? Even though she does not want to?"

"Well," the headmistress said wearily, "you _can_ be very persuasive even where the most stubborn students are–"

"Hermione is _not_ my student. She is _my wife.  
_"I may have harassed and bullied thousands of students during the last twenty years in these hallowed halls. And trust me, you don't want to know how many victims I had to terrorise and torture to keep my cover as a spy intact. But I will _not,_ not now, and not ever, pressure Hermione into something she doesn't want to do."

He jumped up and paced the room. Suddenly he stopped, staring at the strange, still painting that had once shown Albus Dumbledore.

"Minerva, you have _no idea_ what it means to live with such guilt. No matter how extenuating the circumstances. Hermione had to live with the knowledge that she used her magic to kill me and Harry for more than a year. You _don't_ recover from such experiences. Certainly not in six months. I don't expect that of her. And you shouldn't either."

He spun on his heels and left the room.

**oooOooo**

"Oi, Harry," Ron bounded into the archive and slumped down on the visitor's chair, long legs sprawling. He looked his friend over and shook his head. "You look like shit. Pale shit. You should get out more. Where's Draco?"

"Spending quality time with his lobalug."

"Spending … _what?"_ Ron goggled.

"Draco's pet. A lobalug. You know, the fish that killed him. He wanted one for his first deathday. So I got him an aquarium. No idea why, but somehow the fish helps him cope."

Ron shook his head. "If I were Draco, I'd make it my life-task – or _uh…_ death-task to exterminate those loba-things. So what's he coping with? He's been dead over a year. Shouldn't he be used to it by now?"

"We had a visitor today." Harry stared straight ahead, at some point close to Ron's right ear, but far behind him.

_"Oh?"_

"Lucius Malfoy. He just found out that Draco is a ghost."

"Merlin's pants!" Ron exclaimed. "He didn't know?!"

Harry grimaced. "It's the decision of the ghost to inform people of his return. Draco wasn't on good terms with his parents when he died, see? Spent his life being under his father's thumb. He said he'd be damned if he'd put up with it as a ghost." Harry shrugged. "I told him right there and then that it wouldn't work. I mean, how many secrets do _you_ know that actually stayed secret? But Draco wouldn't listen. Insisted the other ghosts wouldn't betray him. And Hannah's a Hufflepuff."

"Still," Ron marvelled. "One year and what? Five, six months? That's a well kept secret indeed, as secrets go around here. I'd have expected someone to blab sooner 'n that."

Harry snorted. "Well, who _would_ tell Lucius? The Malfoys aren't exactly the centre of high society nowadays. And the archives are not exactly gossip central."

"Good point," Ron conceded, still shaking his head. "So how _did_ dear Lucius find out?"

Harry sighed. "I guess you may be right about Draco getting used to his death … See, we have a new intern, Astoria Greengrass – Daphne's little sister. You remember Daphne? That arrogant Slytherin bitch."

"She died."

"Yes. Anyway, we forgot to tell Astoria not to talk about Draco's continued existence. So she told her mother. And her mother –"

"Let me guess. That would be Queenie Greengrass? Best friend of Narcissa Malfoy?"

"Right in one."

"So how did Lucius react?"

Harry rolled his wand back and forth under his palm. "It took three Aurors to throw him out."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **I don't think that Minerva meant for Severus to put inappropriate pressure on Hermione. But uncontrolled bursts of magic _are_ dangerous - which is why the wizarding world has all those age restriction rules. Minerva has good reason to be worried. So asking Severus if he can maybe get Hermione to use magic again does make sense, I think.

I hope you liked today's set of chapters, thank you very much for your encouraging comments!


	12. Conversation in Silence

**Conversation in Silence**

It was a bad day. The voices had woken Alina. With sighs that only she could hear. Often, they faded when she brushed her teeth. That day, they didn't.

Throughout her lessons, she could hear them. Groaning and moaning, reverberating inside her skull. She could have asked to leave, gone to the Room of Requirement and asked Woodstock to sing for her. She even could have begged the teacher to allow the phoenix to sing right there and then. But she didn't _want_ to. She wanted to pay attention in class. She wanted to eat lunch with her friends, watch the Quidditch training of Gryffindor House in the afternoon (Myrrdin was on the team), do her homework, and enjoy a quiet snog with Cato on the Astronomy Tower before dinner.

What she got was the voices of dying people inside her head and the increasing urge to smash her skull against the nearest hard surface just to make the voices stop. A desire that instantly elicited feelings of shame and guilt. Those voices belonged to people. Muggles, witches and wizards, men, women, children. And they were _dying._ It wasn't _right _to feel annoyed because their pain, their last sighs, sobs and words interfered with her plans for the day.

Professor Weasley kept glancing at her throughout the lesson. Luckily it was the weekly lecture on DADA theory; she'd never have lasted through a practical period. But Alina refused to meet his gaze. Instead she kept silently squirming on her chair, shaking her head from time to time in a futile effort to dislodge the voices.

_Good thing I'm mute, too,_ she thought when she escaped from the classroom. _I think I'm close to moaning myself right now._

She skipped lunch and went to Hagrid instead. She sat on a tree trunk and watched him inoculate a boogle of muscaliets. The squirrel-y creatures, and how they jumped about in their huge cage, were funny – and distracting. They were minuscule in Hagrid's shovel-like hands. Yet he caught them with ease and held them as gently as if they were made of precious porcelain.

Suddenly she saw something blink into existence at the periphery of her vision, beyond the rose garden – at the hidden Apparition point just outside the gardens of Hogwarts. A tall black scarecrow of a man, stooping wearily, who supported a slight figure in dark green.

Alina jumped up. Hagrid squinted his eyes at her. He had never managed to levitate a parchment or charm a Dictaquill to communicate with Alina. And she couldn't read his handwriting at all. But he'd started shaving, just for her, so she'd be better able to read his lips.

"Went to St. Mungo's. Check-up."

"Oh," her lips formed silently.

_Sorry, have to run,_ _Hagrid,_ her quill scratched on the parchment. _Thanks for having mm…_

And off she was, running for the castle and the dungeons.

**oooOooo**

Alina was allowed to visit her Head of House and his wife whenever the wards of their personal quarters admitted her. So far, she'd never found them locked. It was a special privilege, and she rarely made use of it. Private lessons with her Head of House, her floating parchment and the phoenix on her shoulder made her more than special enough already.

But today she was inescapably pulled towards the private quarters of the Snapes.

Alina raced into the castle, passed the kitchen, skidded through the entrance hall, and sped down the stairs. She imagined the sounds of her feet on the steps. A hearting clatter of hard leather soles. Then she stood in front of the entrance to Professor Snape's and Hermione's quarters and wondered if it was a good idea to visit right now.

But Woodstock rubbed her beak against her earlobe encouragingly. So Alina took a deep breath and pressed her hand against the painting.

Obediently it swung open.

**oooOooo**

She found them in the living room. Professor Snape stood near the fire place, his shadow flickering rhythmically along with the dancing flames. Hermione crouched in the middle of the sagging leather sofa, her arms curled around her legs.

Alina hesitated outside the door. But Professor Snape nodded when he noticed her and Hermione raised her head. She attempted a smile and failed. She looked smaller than Alina was. Certainly thinner. That didn't seem right. Alina crossed the room and settled down to Hermione's right. Her weight made Hermione shift slightly towards her.

Hermione and Alina sat, Professor Snape stood.

Time passed.

Professor Snape bent down and added more wood to the fire. Alina watched how his shadow followed each of his movements. Next to her, Hermione was watching him, too. When he straightened up, Alina's lips opened in a soundless sigh. She allowed her head to tilt sideways, until it rested on Hermione's bony shoulder, her cheek nestled into Hermione's soft curls.

Professor Snape turned and stared at them. Alina wondered what he was thinking. But it couldn't be all bad. He frowned, but he didn't scowl. Suddenly he shook his head and walked towards them. He sat down on Hermione's other side and pulled her gently into the crook of his arm. Because Alina was leaning against Hermione, she found herself included in the embrace.

At first Alina stiffened, shocked –

… and embarrassed. (Did Professor Snape know that she'd nursed a crush on him a year ago? Of course he knew, he was Head of _Slytherin_ House. He knew _everything._ Oh God, she might just _die_ of shame!)

But then Alina realised that she didn't feel anything untoward –

… only another wave of acute embarrassment (how _fickle_ were her feelings?), the warmth of Hermione's body at her side, and the light touch of Professor Snape's hand on her shoulder.

Alina relaxed.

She inhaled deeply.  
Exhaled.

Closed her eyes.

They didn't speak or write. They just sat there, leaning against each other. They stared into the fire. They breathed in the silence of the room.

And then, very softly, Woodstock the phoenix began to croon.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The title refers to the quote "Silences make the real conversations between friends." from Margaret Lee Runbeck.

Muscaliets are from the_ Bestiaire_ of Pierre de Beauvais. They have a body like a hare, legs and tail like a squirrel, ears like a weasel, a muzzle like a mole, hair like a pig and teeth like a boar.


	13. The Rest of the Day

**The Rest of the Day**

Astoria's stomach churned. There was nothing she wanted so much as to become invisible. Instead she followed Mr. Potter's advice, knocked once, and when there was no answer, she opened the door of Mr. Malfoy's office and stepped inside.

The room was silent and dark, apart from the glowing fishtank along the wall opposite the door. Inside the aquarium a Lobalug lurked in a toy castle that looked very much like Hogwarts.

Astoria cleared her throat. "Mr. Malfoy?"

At first nothing happened.

Then a silvery substance spilled from the miniature Hogwarts and surged to the surface of the fishtank, a myriad tiny bubbles in its wake. With a small splash, the silvery form broke through the surface, and a moment later, the translucent shilouette of Draco Malfoy stood in front of her, every fold of his ghostly robe dry and immaculate.

"Miss Greengrass. What can I do for you?"

Astoria couldn't look him in the eye. They were so piercing. Not at all what she remembered from the Hogwarts ghosts. Instead she looked down at the tips of her shoes, where the Anti-scuffing Charm was visibly beginning to wear off.

"I – I wanted to apologise, sir. It's all my fault. I –"

"What did you do?" interrupted her boss. "Did you tell your mother about your new job? Did you maybe even mention that you work for the ghost of Draco Malfoy and the Boy-Who-Lived to end up a blind paper-pusher?"

She could feel heat rising in her face, flush her cheeks and forehead. She probably looked like a ripe raspberry right now. She swallowed and nodded.

"And did anyone tell you not to mention who you are working for?"

"N-n-n-o. B-but –" She gasped for air and rushed on. "I-should-have-been-more-discreet."

For a moment Malfoy stared at her. Then he shook his head. "Sit."

He indicated a chair. Then he glided behind his desk and affected to sit down himself.

"It was my decision not to inform my parents of my continued existence. I knew that they were bound to find out about – this –" He gestured at where the leather of his office chair shone right through his chest. Then he fixed Astoria with his disconcerting silver stare. "I am sorry that the scene with my father caused you distress."

He'd seen her cowering in the corner. Astoria winced. Could it get any worse?

She tried to straighten up and face Mr. Malfoy. In her mind she heard her mother's voice: _"Don't slump like a common Mudblood, Astoria! Do you have no pride at all?"_

When she dared to look at the ghost, she thought that he looked sad. Could ghosts be sad? She frowned. It _must_ have been horrible for him to have his father break down in front of him like that …

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Malfoy," she said softly.

Irritably, Draco shook his head. "Call me Draco. Every time you say _'Mr. Malfoy'_ I think of my father now. And I'd rather not think of him."

"Sir – Draco – may I … may I ask a question?" She hesitated, but when he nodded, she went on. "Why – I know this is a nosy question, but – if you expected them to find out eventually, why didn't you just tell them? Your father – he was devastated. And your mother – I am sure she will be–"

"My father." If Draco had been alive, Astoria would have probably heard him grinding his teeth. "Is a _superb_ actor."

When Astoria stared at him with wide eyes, he smirked bitterly. "Oh, I am sure he _is_ devastated. The best actors draw on real feelings when they put on their show. But most of all dear Lucius is pissed off that he has lost his way back into the better circles of Pureblood aristocracy. And that I have denied him nearly two years' time for scheming how to use my position as a ghost in the Ministry to his fullest advantage."

"But – but –" Her breath hitched uncomfortably. She shouldn't have asked. _Oh well. In for a sickle, in for a galleon. _"And your mother, sir – Draco?"

The ghost closed his eyes. His outline shimmered and he grew even more translucent than he already was.

"She will understand," he whispered. Then he raised his head. "I think you should go now, Miss Greengrass."

"Astoria."

He blinked. Then the contours of his face strengthened into a smile. "Astoria."

She sighed and rose to her feet.

"I am so sorry," she repeated. Although she didn't quite know for what. For everything, maybe.

**oooOooo**

In the backroom of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes George and Ron pored over their inventory, from A like _'Agony Ants'_ (see the victims writhe and seethe and giggle) to Z like _'Zebra Zits'_ (more than just stripes).

"I think with Hannah on board, we can finally crack Bertie," George said smugly. "Good old Zonko is really not much fun as a competitor anymore. Sure, he's got his solid share of the market, but he's a traditionalist. We've been way ahead of him for two years now."

Ron grinned. Their shop was doing really well. "You know," he suggested hesitantly. "I've had this really weird idea for our sweets line." Normally he handled the financial and the legal end of the business, while George took care of development and marketing. But once in a while, he contributed the odd idea or two as well.

"Weird?" George raised his eyebrows. "Let's hear it then!"

"How about including some Muggle sweets? _'Muggle Snuggles' – 'Hard to believe, but true: they do nothing – they just taste good!'"_

For a moment George remained silent, then he grinned from ear to earhole. "You, my dear brother, are a genius. _That_ is something the wizarding world has never seen before. Just you wait, before the year is out, we'll give Bertie a run for his money."

Then he cracked his knuckles. "And now, I'm afraid I have to run." He waggled his one ear suggestively. "I've got a date with Angelina tonight."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **"Agony Ants", "Zebra Zits" and "Muggle Snuggles" are my own invention.

I hope you liked today's set of chapters, thank you very much for your encouraging comments!


	14. No Place to Be

**No Place to Be**

At the edge of the trees behind the Gatehouse, Hermione halted, shivering. If her hands were free, she'd have hugged herself.

Now that she was physically and magically fully recovered from her sojourn in the monastery, the surplus of magic in her system built up quicker and quicker.

By now she could tell the exact minute when her magic reached its maximum. She felt … full then. Replete. Perfectly balanced within herself. She was tempted to pick up a wand then. Sometimes she even tried. She shuddered and forced herself to swallow the sour taste of bile that suddenly filled her mouth.

Initially, this feeling of equilibrium lasted a night or even a day. Now this sense of balance vanished within just a few hours.

At first, the surplus of magic made her feel restless. Her body would tingle, her skin prickle. In the beginning, she'd mistaken the symptoms for simple randiness. And Severus had obliged her neediness more often than not. Now that Hermione recognised her condition for what it was she wondered how sex could even begin to take off the edge of the fire flowing through her veins.

Because that was the next stage of her symptoms. Restiveness was replaced by a fiery ache in the veins of her arms. And no matter how hard she rubbed her arms, the burning sensation wouldn't lessen. Later, her spine would begin to hurt, and she would start feeling strangely lightheaded.

They hadn't tried out what would happen after that. In all likelihood, she would lose control of her magic and bad things would happen.

Hermione rolled her shoulders, bit down on her lower lip and shifted the heavy parcels in her arms. She hesitated just a second longer before venturing out on the path along the cliffs and towards the castle. Before her captivity she'd love the path along the cliffs. Shell Cottage had been one of her favourite places in the world.

Now, however … Hermione grimaced. The sky was just too big out there. She was much too small. And the emptiness all around her pressed in on her and choked her.

_Agoraphobia,_ she thought. _Fear of wide open spaces._

But she fared even worse in small rooms. Hermione swallowed dryly and tried not to think about the broom cupboard that had maliciously locked her in a few weeks ago.

_Claustrophobia. The fear of enclosed, confined spaces._

She thought of what Healer Mugwort had said about losing control of her magic and of the warning Minerva had given Severus.

_What if there is no space, no place left for me?_

At long last Hermione bowed her head, clutched her parcels closer and walked away from the shelter of the trees.

**oooOooo**

When Hermione reached the part of the path closest to the cliffs, a cloud drifted suddenly in front of the sun. A swift shadow passed over Hermione. She jumped, stumbled; her foot caught in a crevice of the rocks along the path; she fell. Her knees hit the stones with a crunch, the force of her full weight on them, her precious parcels flying from her grasp.

Tears of shock and pain sprang to her eyes. She gasped for the breath that the impact of the fall had knocked from her lungs.

_"Shit, shit, FUCKING shit!"_ she cursed, grimacing as the agony that ripped through her knees raced up her spine. When her vision cleared, she wanted to start crying in earnest. The parcel with the rare potions ingredients for Severus lay on an inaccessible, rocky outcrop around seven feet below.

No problem for a witch with a wand. Just a quick _'Accio!'_ and she'd hold the parcel in her hands. As it was, she was helpless. The smallest mishap, and she was helpless like a small child. Hermione gathered up her scattered bags and packages. Then she looked up and down the path. Maybe she'd get lucky and someone who could help her would pass by soon …

There! A group of students emerged from the trees.

_Must be Ravenclaws,_ Hermione thought, _to be returning to the castle so early on a Hogsmeade afternoon._ As they approached, she quickly saw that she was right. A group of Fifth Year Ravenclaws. Sean Cúchulainn Ferguson and his friends, all of them Purebloods, rich kids, haughty intellectuals of fifteen-and-a-half.

"Mr. Ferguson?" she called out to them.

"Madam Snape?"

She didn't like Ferguson's smirk masquerading as a smile or his supercilious gaze from icy light-blue eyes.

"I seem to have dropped a parcel," she pointed on the rock below, "would you be so kind and _accio_ it up?"

Ferguson stepped to the edge of the cliff and peered down. When he turned back, Hermione had the impression of a cold calculation flitting across his face.

But when he spoke, he had schooled his expression to complete impassivity and his tone was almost deferentially polite.

"I am very sorry, Madam Snape, but I am afraid I can't do that," he said. "I am not of age nor a prefect. I may not use magic outside the classroom. And since you are not a teacher, you cannot permit me to perform magic outside lessons."

"I am really very sorry, Madam."

He didn't look sorry at all. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see how one of his mates had difficulties suppressing a guffaw.

"But we could carry your bags for you, if you want?" he offered full of false chivalry.

One of the girls raised a hand to her mouth, obviously to stifle a giggle.

Hermione felt her cheeks flushing hotly. Tears of humiliation burnt her eyes. "No," she choked out. "No. I'll be all right. Thank you."

"If you're sure?" Ferguson's eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement. "I think one of the Slytherin prefects was not too far behind us. I'm sure he'll be happy to do absolutely _anything _for you."

With that, they left Hermione standing at the edge of the cliffs and continued walking towards the castle.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The layout of Hogwarts in this story is loosely based on the map by Charles J. Mize.

Thank you for your patience while my job kept me from writing. I hope you enjoy this set of chapters.


	15. The Fudge Foundation

**The Fudge Foundation**

"Headmistress," Professor Flitwick piped up at the Saturday afternoon staff meeting, "Where do all those new wands come from? All those exotic woods and cores? Redwood with the spine of a Cactus Cat. Mountain hemlock with Amarok hair. They are not bad, not bad at all. But very volatile! I haven't been able to conduct one uninterrupted lesson this past week!"

Hagrid cleared his throat, reached into his coat and retrieved a tiny brown owl with white flecks on her breast that looked not much bigger than a fluffy ball of dandelion seed in his huge hand. _"This_ is a Central American Pygmy-owl. It has no business being in the Hogwarts owlery. It's very rare in the Muggle world, the climate of the Scottish Highlands is not good for her and she is much too small to cope with big parchments and clumsy children's hands," he boomed. "And it's not the only new owl in the owlery that most certainly does not belong here."

Rolanda Hooch shifted uncomfortably in her seat. When she spoke, her expression was one of nearly immeasurable suffering: "There … _uh…_ seems to have been a mix-up concerning our order with Quick Quality Quidditch Supplies. Instead of a set of the new Cleansweeps, they sent us Screaming Eagles 3000 – enough brooms for all house teams. And a _Cougar_ for the referee."

Severus just looked at her, one black eyebrow raised questioningly.

Bill Weasley frowned. "Whatever is going on, Minerva?"

Minerva congratulated herself on the wisdom of taking a Headache Potion before the staff meeting. Then she wondered how long the beneficial effect of the draught would last.

She shuffled the stack of papers and parchments in front of her and sighed faintly. "I am afraid there is nothing I can do about all of that. The wands, the various new familiars, as well as the brooms and a full scholarship for one student of each House per Year are all funded by the Fudge Foundation. The Office of –"

"The WHAT?" Bill Weasley exclaimed.

"Fudge!" Filius muttered. "Now what has Cornelius been fudging with this time?"

"The Minister?" Hagrid asked, confused.

"The _former_ Minister," Severus corrected. He didn't appear surprised, merely thoughtful.

Minerva nodded. "Yes, Cornelius Fudge. Instead of investing in an expensive election campaign, he has set up the Fudge Foundation, which supports various worthy causes. Such as schools, libraries, hospitals, nature reserves, and similar institutions." She sighed. "As I was saying, the Office of Magical Law Enforcement has already examined the set-up of that trust. It is a perfectly legal welfare organisation."

She could feel the effect of the Headache Potion fade as the tension around her head and temples increased. "The board of governors are thrilled. As all of you are well aware, the financial resources Hogwarts receives from the Department for Magical Education are sparse and the tuition fees are already pushing the limits of what many parents can afford. Of course I can force no student to accept charity. And naturally _all_ teachers need to be able to maintain discipline in class and have to ascertain the safety of their lessons."

Minerva glanced at Filius and Rolanda. Then she nodded at Hagrid. "And the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures requires us to ensure that all animals and beings at Hogwarts are cared for properly. If that is not possible, they need to be removed to more adequate surroundings."

By now the tension in her temples had given way to insistent throbbing. "Anything else? No? Then that's all for today. The staff meeting is adjourned."

**oooOooo**

"Now that's over, how about a round of butterbeer for everyone?" Bill Weasley suggested. "And maybe a game or two?" He withdrew a pack of cards from his within his robes.

"Let's make that real beer for today," Flitwick requested. "After the week I've had, I need a decent brew."

"Minerva?" In effort intended to soothe his own parched throat and to smooth his exit, Severus called softly to the Headmistress. "How about a round of 'Whatever Beakers'? I think all of us could use something a little more palatable than butterbeer today."

Minerva sniffed. "Oh, all right. But limited to three refills, Severus. It's Hogsmeade weekend and you all know what students get up to afterwards."

A few minutes later, the teachers had each a golden goblet with the beverage of their choice in front of them. For a while the only sounds were contented sighs and quiet slurping. Then Filius leant back with a happy burp. "Ah, much better. I say. Now, what do you make of it? A Fudge Foundation instead of a campaign?"

Bill Weasley snorted, his disgust clearly audible. "And articles, ads and flyers announcing his non-campaign everywhere. He's trying to buy off voters."

"It's working, too," Poppy chimed in. "St. Mungo's has opened a new ward this week, paid for with money from the FF."

Neville nodded. "Do you remember that research project for permanent spell damage that the Ministry wanted to stop? Suddenly it's back on the priority listings. He's really spreading the money all over the place: Luna just wrote that the Newt Scamander Foundation has also received a very generous donation. What I'm wondering is where he got all that money from. Grandmother says that the Fudge family never had that kind of funds."

Severus stared at the young herbologist on the other side of the table. He noted with pleased surprise that Neville didn't flinch. "That, Mr. Longbottom, is the most intelligent question I've ever heard from you." A few mental calculations later Severus frowned and shook his head.

"Well, Severus, you sly old s–" Filius coughed. _"–Slytherin._ Have you figured out who finances Fudge?"

"Quite the opposite," Severus said softly. "Considering all the causes mentioned and the sums that must have been used so far, I would say that no person, family, clan or corporation in all of wizarding Britain could bring up even a percentage of the necessary sums."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **

Cactus Cats are based on 19th Century campfire tales of the American West.They have thorny, spine-like hair, most of all on their ears. Their tail is forked and their front legs sport sharp blades of bone, which they use to slash open the saguaro cacti to suck the sap within.

Amaroks are giant wolves in Inuit mythology.

Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome: if something made you frown or smile, or if there's a line that you really enjoyed ... feel free to drop me a line and let me know.


	16. Prophecies of Doom

**Prophecies of Doom**

Alina was walking back to the castle after an afternoon in Hogsmeade. She'd spent a few enjoyable hours browsing the bookshelves at Graymalkin's Grimoires, bought a new Quick Quill and re-usable, waterproof notes-parchments at Scrivenshaft's and treated herself to chocolate ice-cream on the terrace of Madam Puddifoot's. Best of all, since she'd gone on her own, she'd be back at the castle in time to squeeze in another session with The Book before dinner.

Thinking of The Book made her scowl as she walked towards the Gatehouse.

Professor Snape had given it to her the weekend Hermione was rescued. On the first day of autumn equinox, the Anglo-Saxon _hærfest _and modern Wiccan _Mabon._ Not a day of power. But a day of balance.

Alina pondered the problem of balance. They'd only started learning about the way constellations and alignments affected the ebb and flow of magic in Astronomy class this year.

Why had Snape given The Book to her _then?_ Especially when there'd been so much else on his mind?

_If equinox means that everything is in balance that day, that _all _magic is perfectly balanced that day, then that means that _my_ magic was in balance, too,_ she mused. She visualised a balance scale. With the magic of Light resting on one weighing pan and the Dark Arts on the other. Or her magic weighing down one side and her Muggleness on the other? Which side would The Book weigh down?

Alina sighed. Something to meditate on during her session with The Book today.

That's what she did with the book so far: Meditate over it. She sat and gazed at its green leather binding, its tarnished silver clasps and corner guards until her eyes hurt.

As per Professor Snape's instructions. He was always curt, short-spoken in class, but what he'd told her about The Book had been sparse even for him: _"Do not attempt to read it. Do not even attempt to open it until I tell you so. _Make it your own_."_

That was all. And more than irritating. (How can you make a book 'your own' without reading it?) Though Alina had to admit she was almost relieved that she did not have to open and attempt to read it yet.

Because her strategy of making The Book 'her own' consisted of more than meditation. She carried with her wherever she went. At night she slept with it stuffed under her pillow. And in her dreams she sometimes heard whispering voices. Voices, that for once had nothing to do with people dying, and _everything_ with The Book.

She shivered and forced her attention back into the real world. Alina glanced to her right. Somehow everything in the Highlands held a touch of grey: The tree trunks were green-grey, the lake grey-blue with silver sparkles where the rays of the sun hit the surface. And even the bright blue sky was smudged with a hint of grey clouds drifting in from the Atlantic ocean.

A spot of bright purple and gold zoomed in wild circles above the lake, dipping downwards and upwards in great figures of eight. Alina smiled. Woodstock was enjoying the good weather.

Then Alina looked ahead and frowned. Was that Hermione standing at the edge of the cliffs, shoulders hunched, shaking?

**oooOooo**

Bill Weasley put down his beaker. The black Franconian beer he had enjoyed just a moment ago suddenly tasted stale in his mouth. "What do you think, Severus? Is Fudge going to win the election?"

Severus raised an eyebrow. "You read the same paper I do. You attended the same staff meeting I did. So what do _you _think, Bill? Or aren't you paid for that?"

Bill refused to get riled up. He was well aware that there was no love lost between Fudge and Snape. "Sometimes I wonder," he commented calmly.

He twirled the golden goblet in his hands. "Ron thinks Fudge will win. He's taken to prophesying the end of the wizarding world as we knew it, should that happen."

Neville winced. He was touchy about that particular topic. "It's because of that – Fudge and that committee of his, the – what's it called? Office for Harmony? No – Office for Harmonious Magical Markets. That's it. They've been rather hard on the shop last year, haven't they?"

Bill nodded. "Yes. They lost the licences for some of their best-selling products because of new EMU regulations."

Severus snorted. Then he rose to his feet with soft swish of his robes. "I have to take my leave now. Hermione should have returned from Hogsmeade by now."

**oooOooo**

Astoria had just settled down to sort through a stack of papers flooed in fresh from the EMU, when someone knocked on the door. In the silence of the Ministry dungeons the sound echoed like drum rolls. Instinctively, she sucked in her breath and pressed the palm of her hand against her chest as if to slow down her racing heartbeat that way. Then she jumped to her feet and went to open the door.

The woman on the other side was so thin and pale she might have been a ghost. Her complexion reminded Astoria of chalk. Dry and white. Her hair was almost white, with the sickly yellowish hue that pale golden hair sometimes acquires in age. When she raised her head and looked at Astoria with eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, her movements were careful, slow and stiff like those of an old woman in her frailty.

Astoria was barely able to suppress a shocked gasp.

"How do you do, Miss Greengrass," Narcissa Malfoy said softly. "I was wondering if you might tell Draco that I'm here. I would like to – ask if it is possible to speak with him." She paused. "If … he is willing to see me."

_"Oh…"_ Astoria gulped for breath. "Of course." Her voice sounded choked and thin to her ears. "Please come in and sit down, I'll just – just – pop around the corner to his office and – _uh_ – ask him."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The Book of the Dead is from Abhorsen canon, but I'll also be borrowing from Egyptian and Tibetan mythology as far as it suits my purpose.


	17. Just You

**Just You**

"Be good for Granny," Ginny threw a kiss through the green flames of the Floo-fire. Jamie giggled, mumbled something in his very own language and cheerfully waved his chubby little hands. He was such a good baby. She pulled her head out of the Floo. For a moment she knelt in front of the fireplace, watching as the green tint faded from the flames.

Her life ought to feel perfect. Married to the love of her life. A beautiful, healthy son. The career of her dreams.

_Only it didn't._

The flames licked at the wood. A branch broke off. Its fire died. The glowing embers crumbled into white ashes. Ginny sighed and rocked back on her heels. Straightening her shoulders she turned around.

"Harry. We need to talk."

**oooOooo**

Astoria led Narcissa Malfoy down the corridor towards Draco's office and hoped that her voice wouldn't sound as weak as her knees felt.

_If she'd just stayed silent …_

She knocked perfunctorily. "Draco, your mother is here." Then she turned to Narcissa. "Please, Mrs. Malfoy, just go right in."

The woman looked at her sadly. "You used to call me Cissy. Do you remember? When we came to the Grange for summer picnics."

Astoria winced. "I –" Helplessly she shook her head.

Cissy's smile was brittle. "Don't worry, Miss Greengrass. I do – understand."

**oooOooo**

As she ran, Alina's mouth worked, but no sound emerged. In her mind her voice, screamed: _"Hermione! Hermione!"_

Hermione must have heard her nevertheless, sturdy leather-soles pounding the path. But she didn't react.

Then Alina threw her arms around Hermione and dragged her away from the cliffs. Packages and parcels went flying everywhere.

**oooOooo**

"Hey, love," Ron cried as he shoved the door open with his shoulder.

"Oh, Ron!" Lois exclaimed, beaming at her husband over a huge bouquet of flowers. "These are wonderful!" She needed both arms to hold the flowers, there were so many. Smiling, she shook her head. "Why? What's the occasion?"

Ron flushed, right to the tips of his ears. Looking down at his shoes, he mumbled. "None, really. I just … well, I SAW them. And they, well, they looked so, well, _flowery,_ you know? And bright, kind of. And then I thought of you. And – do you like them?" He glanced at her. "So you _do_ like them?"

Lois carefully laid the flowers on the table before she embraced Ron. He cuddled her tightly. "Thank you," she whispered. "Do you know? That's the first time I've ever received flowers for no reason at all."

"Really?" For a moment, Ron didn't move or speak. Then he pressed his lips into her hair. "But there's plenty of reasond, Lois."

"Really?" she echoed, a little confused.

He nodded solemnly. "Yes. It's … well, you. Just … you. That you are you. For me, that's reason enough."

**oooOooo**

It took a while to sort everything out, from the mess of packages and bags scattered all over the path to what was wrong to start with. Initially Hermione had been shaking too hard to hold a pen.

When Hermione had finally jotted down her story, Alina couldn't stop shaking her head. Inwardly she fumed, but she wasn't about to let Hermione see just how worried or angry she was.

_so where's that stupid package you lost?_ scratched Alina's new Quick Quill on an equally new piece of 'note-it'-parchment.

"Down there," Hermione said and pointed to the cliff. She bent over her notepad and quickly wrote a few lines: _Don't bother. It was mostly powders. They'll be damp by now, and useless._

Alina sighed silently. _still,_ her quill wrote, _safer to get 'em up here and dispose of them properly_

She walked to the edge of the cliff and stared fiercely at the parcel wrapped in brown paper that lay on the rocky outcrop down below.

_"ACCIO!"_ she thought and held her hands in front of her.

Obediently the package lifted and hurtled upwards until it landed safely in her hands. Alina fixed a careful smile on her face and turned around.

_here,_ she mouthed, knowing that the Quick Quill was spelling out the words instantly just to the left of her head. _looks fine to me_

Hermione smiled. "Thank you." Then she bit down on her lower lip and scrawled a few more words on her notepad.

_better get going – Severus will be waiting_

Alina nodded. Before Hermione could walk away, she caught her arm and pointed her chin towards her floating parchment.

_"If you don't tell him everything, I WILL."_

Hermione's shoulders slumped. "You're much too direct for a Slytherin," she complained.

Alina laughed soundlessly. _i caught that – and whatever works when dealing with Gryffindors_

Mentally, she made a note to talk to Professor Snape during their next tutoring session. She didn't trust Hermione not to try and _slither_ her way around telling the full story …

**oooOooo**

"Mother," Draco said softly. "Please sit down. – Astoria, I think a Calming Draught, some tea and sandwiches, if that's not too much trouble."

The girl, white as a sheet, apart from two spots of colour burning high on her cheekbones, quickly shook her head. "Of course not." She fled the room.

His mother stared at him as if she'd seen –

Draco smirked: yes, his mother was looking at him as if she was seeing exactly what she _was_ seeing.

_A ghost._

Narcissa bowed her head. Without looking at him, she said quietly, "Oh Draco. I had such _plans_ for you. I could see everything so clearly. Your wedding banquet. The birth of your first son. Your first day as the youngest member of the Wizengamot. Down to the perfect robes for the occasion. Parisian, you know?"

Draco just shook his head.

When Narcissa looked up at him, her eyes were brimming with tears. "And now," she whispered, "what I wouldn't give just to hold you one more time."

For a long moment Draco stared at her. Then he drifted closer.

"But you do, mother," he murmured. "Every other night. In your dreams."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The idea that the ghosts/spirits/souls of the dead can enter your dreams is probably as old as humanity, I guess. The best ghost story in HG/SS fandom is - IMNAHHO - "Unfinished Business" by Ramos. Textual allusions to that story are intentional expressions of humble appreciation.

But the experience of ghosts coming to you in your dreams is my own.

Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome: if something made you frown or smile, or if there's a line that you really enjoyed ... feel free to drop me a line and let me know.


	18. Silence Is Not Always Golden

**Silence Is Not Always Golden**

Ginny rose to her feet and walked over to the old sagging leather couch where Harry was sitting and staring off into the darkness of his mind.

She didn't like the idea of Harry with magical eyes, all spinning and whirling, his gaze following her through closed doors. But she hated his hard stony blindness more. Snape's eyes, though exactly the same colour, were warm and cheerful by comparison.

"All right," Harry said, without bothering to turn towards her. "Then talk."

"Harry, I said I wanted to _talk,_ not –"

"Not argue? Lecture me? Chastise me?" He sounded bitter.

"Harry, that's not what I'm trying to do …"

"But that _is_ what you do, Ginny! You're worse than Hermione these days."

Ginny's finger cramped around the seam of her turquoise skirt. She'd dressed up for tonight, even though Harry couldn't see it. And she did _not _want to argue. Though if Harry kept pushing her, she'd fly off the handle quicker than he could say Quidditch …

"That's part of it," she said, her voice tight. "It's always about Hermione."

Harry snorted. "See? I knew you just wanted to lecture me!"

Ginny exploded from the couch. "I did not! But if that's what it takes? Then you can have your lecture!" she hissed at him. She stomped to the window, where she whirled around to face him. "It's always about Hermione," she repeated.

"If you'd listened," Harry groused, "then you'd realise that I didn't actually pay Hermione a compliment just now!"

But Ginny had enough. "And if it's not Hermione," she raged, "then it's Severus _sodding_ Snape or Draco _fucking_ Malfoy. You don't have just a _'saving people'-_thing, Harry. You're trying to _babysit_ everyone. At the same time you don't seem to give a flying fuck about yourself. I don't care if that's because you didn't have a proper family growing up, or because you were groomed to be the martyr of the wizarding world. Nowadays you have a family of your own. You don't have to be a hero anymore. I'm here for you, Harry! And you need to talk to me!"

"And when do you think I should talk to you? When you're away for team practice? When you're at an important match? When you're abroad for a championship? And forgive me, but when everything I say ends with you scolding me like a stupid First Year, I just don't feel much like talking. I'd rather you just assign me detention or take off House points."

White-hot fury made her vision swim. "I don't know if you remember, Harry, but I have a career, Harry. A career that means a lot to me and that requires a whole lot of effort. Including team practice, matches, press conferences and championships. I've worked my arse off to be on the team. I thought you understand how important that is to me!"

"I have a job, too!" Harry yelled. "But I'm not going to put that job above my family!"

"Great job, that!" Ginny scathed. "Paper-pushing in the dungeons. You can do better than that. And no, I agree. You'd never put your career over your family. But a gazillion other things. Like, everybody else's problems. Even a GHOST is more important to you than your health and your family!"

Dazed, Harry shook his head. "What's got Draco to do with anything?"

Frustration swamped Ginny. Wearily she walked back to the sofa and slumped down on the sagging leather. "Nothing, really," she admitted with a sigh. "Except that he's yet another of your causes. You remind me of Hermione when we were kids. Picking up hopeless causes and …" She shook her head. "Draco's _dead,_ Harry. You can't save him anymore."

"I know he's dead. I work with him, remember?" Harry finally turned his head towards her. "And just because he's dead doesn't mean he's a hopeless cause. I know I promised to be home earlier today, but after Narcissa's visit he really needed some company. And Hermione is my friend. I thought she was your friend, too! Friends aren't causes, Ginny. They are _friends._ You care about them. And you don't stop caring about them when things get difficult or take longer to get better than you want. Or even when things _won't_ _ever _get better."

"But your eyes could get better, Harry," she whispered. "They _could!"_ Impatiently she dashed at her own eyes, smearing sticky tears all over her flushed face. "I just don't understand you anymore at all."

Harry reached for her and pulled her into his arms. For a moment she thought he wanted to say something and she held her breath, hoping that he'd finally _tell_ her. But he only shook his head a little and cuddled her closer.

Ginny closed her eyes. _Whatever is going on that Harry can't talk about? And how is this marriage going to work, if Harry doesn't talk to me?_

**oooOooo**

Sometimes Alina didn't feel very Slytherin at all. Like right now, for example. She wanted nothing so much as to walk right up to the Ravenclaw House table and kick the skinny arse of Sean Cúchulainn Ferguson and his idiot girlfriend Cordelia Wisby.

For the past three days she'd kept a close watch on Hermione, her Head of House, Professor Flitwick, Ravenclaw's golden boy and his despicable cronies, as well as the balance of sapphires in the Ravenclaw hourglass.

By Wednesday morning, one thing was painfully clear: Hermione hadn't kept her promise. Now it was time for Alina to keep hers.

**oooOooo**

"That is not an essay," silvery letters spelled out, floating next to the lank black hair of Alina's Head of House. Black eyes bored into her.

Miserably, Alina shook her head. Handing in a description of what she'd witnessed last Saturday instead of her essay was less than subtle, but she hadn't been able to devise a more cunning plan.

_Why oh why had Hermione broken her promise? That wasn't very Gryffindor. _

_Worse, it wasn't like Hermione at all._

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for your encouraging comments, I hope you'll enjoy the new set!


	19. A Fool's Hope, a Fool's Courage

**A Fool's Hope, A Fool's Courage**

The many small panes of the shop's window sparkled in the sunlight. Hermione stared at the sign above the door, trying hard not hyperventilate.

_"Ollivander's,"_ it said, beautiful blackletters painted on a wooden sign, _"Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."_

She gasped for breath and held it for a second, shivering, her stomach tight. _I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I'm a witch. I'm what … I'm who …_

Her hand was shaking when she reached for the door and pushed it open.

"Madam Snape," a reedy old voice murmured. "I see you have come for a new set of wands …"

**oooOooo**

Astoria pressed her lips together so she wouldn't sigh. She'd never liked dungeons. Not at Hogwarts, and not here, at the Ministry.

Especially not this week.

Draco spoke in monosyllables and Mr. Potter didn't say much more.

And it was all _her_ fault.

"Miss Gr– ah, Astoria?" Draco entered the office. "My son's mother – Hannah Abbott – will be here shortly, dropping of my nephew and my son for a few hours. But the Minister just sent me a memo. She wants to see me right now. It shouldn't take long, but just in case, would you be prepared to keep an eye on the children?"

For a second, Astoria just stared at him. "Your son?!"

The ghost sighed. "I was engaged when I died. Shortly after my death, my fiancée discovered that she was pregnant. My son was born in October 2001. Since then, Hannah and I have separated amicably." For a second only Astoria's gasp disturbed the silence of the dungeon.

Draco stared at Astoria, translucent silvery eyes darkening to the shadows of the walls behind him. "Just so you know what to tell your mother: Hannah is engaged again – she'll marry Neville Longbottom this summer." Raising an elegantly slanted eyebrow, he sneered at Astoria. "I generally do prefer to avoid painful misunderstandings these days."

"Of course, sir." Her throat felt painfully dry.

When Draco moved past her and disappeared through the closed door, she was almost grateful for the ghostly chill that flowed in his wake. Her cheeks were burning with shame.

Astoria wilted in her seat like mouldy Muggle paper. For a long moment she sat slumped over her desk, wondering if she'd ever live that faux pas down.

When she leant back at last and reached for the topmost parchment of the EMU pile, the Floo roared to life.

A small, sturdy boy with silvery, translucent hair tumbled out of the fireplace. Scrambling to his feet, the child grinned at her. "Look, look, I got my hair just right this time! Just like uncle Draco's!"

A second whoosh of flames, and a woman with a toddler in her arms stepped out down from the hearth. "Hello," she said briskly. "I'm Hannah Abbott. Where's Draco? He was supposed to meet us here."

**oooOooo**

"Much as it grieves me," Severus announced in a cold voice, silvery letters repeating his words in the air next to him. "Five points from Slytherin House. _And_ twelve inches on time management, to be handed in with the essay you were meant to write. Tomorrow."

"Additionally …" He allowed his demeanour to soften subtly. "Fifteen points to Slytherin for keeping a promise. Even if neither the promise nor the way you kept it was particularly Slytherin."

"Sorry, sir," Alina mouthed and hung her head.

He inclined his head and motioned for her to show him her various class assignments. Now that she could mostly keep up with her classmates, he knew better than to trust her judgement when to admit that she needed help with something.

For a moment Severus stared blankly at Alina's latest Transfiguration essay. He had to suppress the urge to get up and rush to the library, so he could shake Hermione and ask her what in Circe's and Nimue's name she was playing at. Why hadn't she come to him?

A shiver raced down his spine. Suddenly he felt cold in spite of his multiple layers of clothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Alina glanced at the floor behind him.

_Oh._

_So his shadow had just disappeared?_

Severus frowned and cleared his mind, intent on for once catching every sensation that went with the experience. But he waited in vain for the feeling of warmth he had come to associate with the moment his shadow entered a room Hermione was in.

A second later, Alina jumped a little and looked guiltily back at her parchments.

When he laid her Transfiguration homework assignment aside, a clearly defined shadow followed his every move.

_Where was Hermione?_

Maybe she didn't have to work this afternoon? But wouldn't she have told him? Maybe a headache. Yes. That must be it. She hadn't mentioned that the incident to him. Or that she was feeling poorly, though he'd already begun to suspect that he would need to help her again with her magic before her appointment at St. Mungo's tomorrow.

Maybe she'd gone for a walk to clear her head.

Annoyed at himself, Severus shook his head. "Miss Petrel," again silvery letters followed every word he spoke aloud, "I don't know if you're aware that Switching Spells will almost certainly feature in your Transfiguration OWL. At the end of this year you should be able to transfigure guinea fowl into guinea pigs and back. By now switching parchment into sheep fur and back should pose no problem for you."

Jumping back, he snarled, "Concentrate, silly girl! Sheep fleece, not _sheep!"_

With a flick of his wand, he vanished the animals and Alina's Transfiguration essay.

"Miss Petrel, I think that concludes this charming lesson," he sneered. "Even with that Quick Quill of yours you will need time to write three essays instead of only one to–"

The Floo activated in an explosion of green.

No face appeared, only Healer Mugwort's voice issued from the flames with an urgent call: "Severus! Floo over at once. Hermione needs you. _Now."_

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome: if something made you frown or smile, or if there's a line that you really enjoyed ... feel free to drop me a line and let me know.


	20. Lost

**Lost**

Hermione always knew when she was dreaming.

This time, she knew it was a dream because when she'd bought her first wand with her parents, the window of the shop hadn't sparkled in the sunlight, and there hadn't been neat IKEA-style shelves lining the walls. And it hadn't been Genevieve to come and greet them, but Ollivander, emerging like a pale spectre from the murky interior of his shop.

But now Genevieve welcomed them, before she shook the hand of the little girl next to Hermione.

"Perdita Granger, come to pick out your first wand." The wandmaker smiled. "Trading places with your sister, are you? You come to join the wizarding world and she leaves it."

The girl, tanned, freckled, with straight brown hair and strange amber eyes, shook her head. "But we're not," Perdita said. "My parents have forgotten all about her. For us, she has never existed at all."

Hermione met her parents' eyes. Confusion mingled with suspicion. Her mother pulled Perdita closer.

"I thought you named her Cordelia," Hermione murmured and raised her wand to cast _Obliviate._

When her lips rounded to form the first syllable of the spell, her wand and her hand exploded in a burst of fire and agony.

**oooOooo**

"Stop." Mugwort stepped in front of him. "If you think I'll allow you to see Hermione in that state, then you're sorely mistaken."

"Get out of my way," Severus snarled.

The witch didn't even blink. When he attempted to shove past her, she grabbed his arms and pushed him against the wall. "Severus, you're whiter than that wall and you're shaking. Hermione needs you, but not like that."

She pressed a vial of Calming Draught into his palm. "Drink," Mugwort urged. "You need it."

His eyes strayed to the closed door at the end of the corridor.

"She will recover," the healer promised.

Severus sagged against the wall. Closing his eyes, he exhaled a choked sigh. When he looked at Mugwort again, the healer shook her head and pointed at his hand. He scowled.

"Potion first, explanations later," she reminded him sternly.

_"Healers, harridans and harpies,"_ he muttered and downed the potion with one gulp. At once warmth and calmness spread through his body. Suddenly he could breathe again. He sighed again, deeper this time. "All right. – Muriel, what happened? I was only told that there was an accident at Ollivander's. What has that to do with Hermione?"

"Everything, I'm afraid," Mugwort said. "Hermione accompanied Minerva to Diagon Alley today. She wanted to get new wands."

"What happened?" Tendrils of cold dread drifted through the potion-induced cosiness that enveloped him.

"The wand exploded in her hand."

"What?!" His stomach dropped. "How serious are her injuries?"

"Her right palm was burnt badly. She has suffered multiple cuts and lacerations. One splinter was embedded in her left eye. However, the shock is worse than the injuries." Mugwort laid a hand on his arm. "Though I must warn you – the injuries _do_ look bad. Her body doesn't react well to magic right now. We had to use acupuncture to draw off most of her magic so we could fix her eye. She will heal almost like a Muggle now. Severus, I am telling you that not to scare you, just to prepare you."

"I –" When he looked down at the squat woman who returned his menacing gaze so calmly, he found he couldn't lie to her.

But neither could he admit to the pure panic barely alleviated by the Calming Draught.

"I know," the healer murmured and patted his arm. "Now go to her."

**oooOooo**

Hermione lay huddled on her side and slept, a wisp of a woman, her brown curls a matted mess. He stepped to her side and stood, staring down at her.

Her face, her neck, shoulders and what he could see of her breasts were covered in small, ragged cuts. She lay curled around her right hand. Although it was thickly bandaged and smelt of healing salve, it had to be hurting. Her whole body was tense and strained.

_Stupid, stubborn Gryffindor._

It wasn't like her, to rush in blind. How desperate she must be. Rage flared up in the pit of his stomach, rushing red and hot through his veins. Mister Sean Cúchulainn Ferguson would regret the day he was born.

Hermione started thrashing in her sleep, tossing her head from side to side, nearly dislocating the black patch that covered her left eye. A mangled, mewling sound emerged from her lips. Carefully, he laid down his hand on her shoulder. Her right eye snapped open. For a moment she stared, unfocused, caught between the nightmare and the horror of her days. Then she gasped, relief washing over her and leaving her limp as a rag.

"Sev'rus," she mumbled. "You came!"

"Of course," he said softly as he stroked back a curly tendril of sweat-soaked hair. "You foolish, foolish, _foolish_ woman. Whatever _possessed_ you to pull such an idiotic stunt? Whatever were you thinking to run off on such a hare-brained mission? _Were _you thinking at all?"

"I was thinking that I must get over this stupid _Muggle_ trauma and this idiotic guilt complex of mine, and that I must get my magic back," she replied. _"Or –"_

She pressed her lips together and turned her head away.

"You are only stupid and idiotic when you spout such irrational insipience," Severus scathed. Then he carefully took her left hand. Noticing how loose her wedding ring felt around her finger, he admonished her, "You really need to eat more."

"Hermione, magic doesn't work that way," he went on to chide her gently. "Magic won't follow your whims or obey so-called laws of nature. That's why it is called magic. It follows its own rules."

Hermione closed her one good eye. Her lips moved, but she didn't say anything. Attuned to Alina's silent speech, Severus frowned. _Perdita?_

"You are not lost, Hermione."

She shook her head. "Just take me _ho–_ take me to Hogwarts, okay?"

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **In Apprentice 'verse, the memory charm Hermione performed on her parents interfered with a secret protective charm the Ministry had placed on them. A bad combination of magic, with the side-effect that Hermione's parents will never regain their memories. After that became clear, Hermione continued to receive reports about her parents' well-being from the Auror Office for a while. But when her parents adopted a little girl and called her "Cordelia Perdita", Hermione cancelled that subscription.

Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome: if something made you frown or smile, or if there's a line that you really enjoyed ... feel free to drop me a line and let me know.


	21. Serious Business

**Serious Business**

For a second Astoria stared at Hannah and at the squirming toddler in her arms. Then she smiled. The little boy had a heart-shaped face, pink cheeks, a rose-bud mouth, brilliant blue eyes and hair that was so blonde it looked white. He was the most beautiful child she'd ever seen.

"This is Scorpius." Instead of returning Astoria's smile, Hannah's lips thinned.

Astoria blinked, trying to reconcile the woman before her with the pink-faced, pig-tailed teenager she'd known at Hogwarts, when Hannah had been two years ahead of her and by far the friendliest of all prefects.

Her cheeks were still rosy, her hair still blonde. But apart from that, Hannah seemed to have little in common with the girl she'd been. Although she had gained generous womanly curves, there was nothing soft about her. The new proprietress of "The Leaky Cauldron" had the down-to-earth, don't-mess-with-me look of a tavern owner down to a T.

And in her eyes bitter shadows of sorrow lurked.

Astoria swallowed hard. _"Dra–_ Mr. Malfoy should be back soon. The Minister called him up for something."

Hannah narrowed her eyes. "I'll wait." She put Scorpius on the floor, scattered a few tiny crumbs in front of him and enlarged them promptly into wooden building blocks that changed their colour, depending on how many were stacked together. "Pi, be good."

The toddler mumbled something incoherent, but proceeded to occupy himself earnestly with the business of building blue stacks (two rectangles, one square at the top).

"Teddy, stay here. You know that you're not allowed in there without your uncle present."

Pouting, the boy flounced back to Hannah. "But I want to see his fish!"

Hannah winced just a little, but her brisk voice betrayed no emotion. "Ask Uncle Draco when he comes back. Here's your book." A quick flick of her wand enlarged a stamp-sized object on her palm into an animated picture book from the Babbitty Rabbitty series.

"May I sit at the desk?" Teddy turned to Astoria.

_"Uh…_ of course. Just don't touch the parchments, all right?"

Hannah raised an eyebrow.

"Really, it's okay. I've already cleared up for the day." Astoria walked around the desk and gestured for Hannah to sit down in one of the visitors chairs. Only when the other woman had settled down, Astoria perched on the other chair herself.

After another glance at the children, making sure that they were doing what they were supposed to do, Hannah turned her attention to Astoria. Her expression was cool. "So how are you these days, Astoria? I have to admit that I was a little surprised when Draco told me that Daphne's little sister is working for him now."

"I am very grateful to Mr. Nott for the opportunity," Astoria replied as calmly as she could.

"Ah, yes. Slytherins _do_ take care of their own, don't they?"

"I was in Hufflepuff." _And I doubt you've forgotten that. You always took your prefect duties very seriously._

"Your sister was not."

"I am not my sister."

"But you _are_ Hufflepuff. And you know what they say about us, don't you? _'Loyal to a fault',"_ retorted Hannah.

Astoria flinched. "I never supported my family's cause."

"But you still support your family."

"Why do you even care?" Astoria asked defensively. "You wanted to marry _Draco!"_

Hannah bent forwards in her chair. "I care precisely _because_ I wanted to marry him. What are you playing at, blabbing his secrets to his parents? Now Lucius Malfoy is suing for custody over Scorpius. And all because _you_ couldn't keep your big mouth shut."

**oooOooo**

George had already left, flying off to watch a match of the Holyhead Harpies and to cheer for Angelina, while Ron was still finishing up some paperwork in the shop.

Sighing, he sealed and rolled up another scroll. Somehow tedious paperwork took up more and more of his time these days.

Admittedly, he was also rather impatient to get going tonight.

Lois was a big believer in fixed daily routines for babies, and he dearly wanted to play a bit with Kuno and Hugo before their bedtime. _And_ he needed to stop by St. Mungo's to look in on Hermione before going home.

_Merlin's pants._ He'd been aware that Hermione had a problem with her magic these days, but nearly blowing up a shop and herself …

Suddenly the door bells jingled and reminded him that he hadn't locked up the shop yet.

_Damn,_ a late customer.

_"From now on I'll lock up the second George steps foot outside,"_ he vowed under his breath as he ducked into the show room.

The main room of the shop was quite large, but stuffed as it was with shelves and display tables, it appeared crammed, definitely too small to fit the fat wizard in purple robes who stood sweating in the middle of the floor. Bushy white eyebrows, a cloud of white hair framed his head and a fluffy cowlick frothed over balding pink skin. A thick handlebar and chin puff type of beard made the wizard look rather like a very hairy walrus. The purple tie and dress robes reminded Ron of Dumbledore.

He cleared his throat. "Why, hello Bertie. Long time no see. As full of beans as always, I hope?"

"Quite, quite," Bertie replied. He pulled a pink kerchief from his sleeve and dabbed nervously at his forehead. "I _ah…_ The shop is doing well, I trust?"

"We're getting by. Though all those new rules and restrictions coming down from the EMU are a pain in the …" Ron trailed off. "Well, how may I help you? Some Wheezes for the grandchildren, perhaps?"

"I … _ah…_ to be perfectly honest, I am here on serious business." Again Bertie dragged his kerchief across his sweat-damp face. "I gather that you are in charge of finances for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?"

Ron's frown deepened. "I guess that's not a secret."

"You see, Ron, I was wondering if you and your brother could imagine selling the shop …"

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **To recapitulate, some birthdays in Apprentice 'verse:

April 22, 1998 - Teddy Lupin  
October 27, 2001 - Scorpius "Pi" Malfoy  
June 18, 2002 - Hugo and Kuno Weasley  
August 20, 2002 - "Jamie" James-Hermes Potter

So, what do you think?


	22. The Ruins of Reality

**The Ruins of Reality**

Apparating didn't agree with Hermione. She clung to Severus, desperate not to lose what little she'd eaten at St. Mungo's. Once again she wished that the way from the Apparition Point to the castle were shorter. And Severus had refused to use the Apparition Point beyond the gardens, arguing that she was in no shape to navigate narrow paths and any more stairs than necessary.

_At least the weather is nice,_ Hermione thought. _Warm. Sunshine. And the air so soft, close to the Loch._

Wearily, she turned around and actually walked a few steps before she noticed that something was wrong.

Then she looked up and stopped dead in her tracks.

_Hogwarts was gone._

Ahead of her the broken ruins of a great castle rose up above the cliffs. Only the walls were left of the buildings, and in places not even those. The crumbling remains of one lonely tower stared sightlessly across the lake.

Gasping, she stumbled backwards.

What had happened here while she was gone? Had Voldemort returned and killed everyone, before anyone noticed, before anyone could do anything at all?

She wanted to scream, but panic constricted her throat. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't turn away. She could only stare and stare at what was left of Hogwarts, until she realised dimly that those ruins were _old._

What death and destruction had caused the castle to shatter must have happened hundreds of years ago. Ivy grew over the walls. In crevices stonecrop sprouted. Heather and gorse had taken over yards and gardens.

About sixty feet ahead rolls of barbed wired surrounded a lopsided sign that declared in faded letters: _"Unsafe! Keep out!"_

******oooOooo**

Hermione dropped to her knees as the ruins of the castle disappeared behind a veil of tears. From far away she heard screams, a terrible, broken-hearted keening.

_Hogwarts gone.  
Her magic, gone._

_Had it ever been real?  
Had she ever been a witch?_

_Was she real at all?_

She hadn't done any magic in more than two years. How could she still be a witch? And she didn't feel like herself anymore. She didn't feel _real._ She barely felt anything at all. Not even when she began to beat her fists against the rocky road, gasping and shrieking, "I'm a witch. I'm a witch. I'm a real witch. Real, real, I'm real. And Hogwarts is real, too. Tell me, tell me. It's real, real, real!"

Suddenly she found herself yanked backwards at the shoulder. A hard smack and a hot flash of pain seared through the haze that surrounded her.

"Cease this foolishness instantly," Severus hissed from behind her. Harshly he jerked her right hand upwards. Without letting go of her shoulder, he ripped the dirty bandages from her injured palm. His right hand caught her wrist in an iron grip and wrenched it higher.

"Look at this!"

When she just sagged against him, he tightened his grasp on her shoulder and shook her violently. "Hermione, don't make me force you," Severus snarled. "LOOK AT YOUR DAMN HAND!"

Shuddering, she opened her eyes.

The hand of a woman extended before the background of a bright blue sky. Thin fingers covered with healing burns. A palm that looked like raw meat, glistening in the sunlight.

"Do you see this? Do you see your wand-hand, what the wand you tried out _did_ to your wand-hand? Answer me, _damn you,_ answer me!"

"I – I – see – my – my – hand," she sobbed.

"No," he growled. But he let go of her shoulder and instead wrapped his left arm securely around her body, holding her pressed against him. "Wrong answer. Try again."

"I – s-s-sssee my – my – w-w-wwwand-hand," Hermione whimpered.

"Your magic may be fucked three ways to Sunday and back," Severus said softly. "But it's still there. And this, awful though it may appear to you at the moment, is _ample_ proof of your powers. Muggles and Squibs can wave a wand until they are blue in the face. Nothing will happen. Nothing at all."

He whispered a few words. The bandages he had ripped away from her hand floated up into the air, clean and white once more, and wrapped themselves carefully around her wand-hand. When the hand was bandaged once more, Severus enveloped Hermione in his embrace and gently laid his right hand on her bandaged one.

"You picked up a wand and very nearly annihilated one of the oldest shops in wizarding Britain. Trust me, you _are_ a real witch. Witchcraft doesn't get much more real than that. Wand injuries are notoriously difficult to heal, and your magic was interfering. Healer Mugwort told me that they had to drain most of your magic in order to save your eye. That is all. In a few days Hogwarts will be clearly visible for you again."

With a moan she twisted around in his arms, hiding her face at his chest so she wouldn't have to see the broken remains of what had undoubtedly been a proud castle once upon a time. Pain pulsed in her right hand and burnt in her patched eye. Her body ached and her head pounded. As if a whole herd of hippogriffs had trampled her.

"And where shall I stay until then? Can you take me to Spinner's End? Or back to St. Mungo's?"

She felt him shaking his head. "Hush, you foolish, foolish woman. You asked me to take you home. Home is Hogwarts. And that's where I'll take you. Now close your eyes and relax. I'll cast _Condormio_ on you. That should be enough to get you past the wards. When you wake up, you'll be safely in our bed. I promise."

He lifted her into his arms as if she didn't weigh a thing. As if –

"But I _am _real," she whispered.

"Very real," Severus agreed. "Now sleep. When you wake up, all will be well."

She wanted to protest – she knew better than that – but Severus kissed her and whispered something, and then the world went dark around her.

******oooOooo**

* * *

******A/N: **Condormio - a spell-adequate version of "condormire"/"to fall asleep"

Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome: if something made you frown or smile, or if there's a line that you really enjoyed ... feel free to drop me a line and let me know.


	23. Spinach Soup for the Soul

**Spinach-soup for the Soul**

Hermione woke in a very visible hospital wing.

Or at least in a _partly_ visible hospital wing. When blinking repeatedly didn't clear away the obstruction, she remembered the eye patch. Then she noticed the visitor sitting on her left. The window behind him was open. A breeze stirred the curtains and the air smelt of morning – tart, very fresh.

"Hullo, Harry," Hermione said and discovered that she could smile. "Did it always feel like that to wake up here? Sort of unreal?"

"Very," he replied, relief deepening his voice. "Severus is in the dungeons, torturing Second Years, then Fifth Years, then First Years, I think. But if you need him, I'll go get him."

Hermione shook her head. Belatedly, she realised that Harry couldn't see the gesture. "No, no, it's okay. I'm okay."

"You're not. You know it, and I know it," Harry disagreed. "And Severus does, too." Then he bent forwards and extended his hand. She met him halfway, entwining the fingers of her left hand with his. "You should have told him about that incident. And you shouldn't have gone to Ollivander's alone."

Hermione knew he was right. Still she bridled at being patronised.

"You're the one to talk," she complained. "Never have gone haring off on hare-brained adventures all alone, have you? Never have kept something important from the ones most dear to you, hmm?"

Harry squeezed her hand before leaning back in his chair again. "I guess I deserved that."

"You most certainly did," Hermione murmured. "But I don't hold it against you."

Unwilling to talk about the proverbial elephant in the room that appeared to be sitting on her bed (or should that be _'hippogriff' _in the wizarding world?), Hermione decided to steer the conversation away from her and her problems. "Since you just mentioned _talking_ … have _you_ finally _talked_ things over with Ginny?"

A shadow passed over Harry's face and he shook his head. "Yes, I have." He took a deep breath. "Ginny and I have agreed to take a break."

"What?" Hermione gasped. "You've separated? Oh, Harry, no!"

Harry winced. "Not exactly separated, no. Just – taking a break. She's off to Europe for the championships for the next three months anyway. She's taking Jamie, by the way. They have this truly wonderful nanny for the kids of players, you know? With a certificate from the Mary-Poppins-Academy, no less. And I'll spend a good deal of the summer here at Hogwarts, helping with the warding of the castle. So we wouldn't be seeing each other much regardless. It's … an opportunity to _umm…_ gain a new perspective. Calm down. When she gets back in September, we'll see where we stand and _uh,_ take things from there."

_"Oh, Harry …"_

"Come on, Hermione, it's not as bad as all that. Cheer up! Ginny and I will work things out when she's back. We always do. And just think how great the summer will be. Hogwarts with no Dark Lords, no rogue Necromancers, no Umbridge … Ron is going to come over, too, by the way. So he can look after Alina a bit. I hear that Lois is planning to take the twins off to visit some aunts and uncles of hers. Living life on the Muggle side for a while. You see, it will be just like old times! You, me, Ron."

Hermione sat up straight in her bed. "Harry Potter," she said sternly. "You forget that I've known you since we were a snot-nosed, eleven-year-old brat." She drew a deep breath. "I know what you are doing, Harry. You've done it before. You're trying to keep them safe." She paused and studied her friend's face. Her stomach twisted.

"How scared are you, Harry?"

Harry closed his blind, black eyes.

"Very," he whispered.

**oooOooo**

When Hermione woke the next morning, the bed was still warm on her left and a spicy scent floated in the air. _Vetyver, nutmeg, cypress, rosemary, bergamot …_

She'd know that scent anywhere.

Hermione couldn't help smiling. _Silly man._ When she'd grown tired after dinner the previous evening, she'd sent Severus off to the dungeons and their large, comfortable bed. And somehow he'd given her the impression that he would only wait until she'd fallen asleep, and then go down to their quarters – maybe even catch some miscreants on the way. Only now that she thought about it, she realised that he'd never actually _said_ what he would do, not in so many words.

Now she knew why. He'd never intended to go. _Such a silly, _sweet _Slytherin …_

Absently she stroked her bandaged hand. Her palm itched a little. A good sign, that. Madam Pomfrey had changed the dressings last night, and should be in to renew it right after breakfast. Her hand was healing well, better than Healer Mugwort had predicted.

Tonight the Hogwarts matron would inspect her eye and with a little bit of luck she'd back in the dungeons tomorrow. _And then what?_

She fingered the string that held the eye patch in place. She wasn't sure. She didn't know what she wanted anymore. Sometimes, she didn't even know herself anymore.

**oooOooo**

"I've brought you soup," Luna announced in the afternoon, unexpectedly meandering through the hospital wing around teatime. "I have it on good authority that Muggles swear by that as a remedy."

A few minutes later, Hermione peered at a bowl sitting on her bedside table. The violently green concoction bubbled ominously. "Whatever _is_ that?"

"Spinach soup, actually," Luna replied with a lofty smile. "It's one of the few things I remember from my mother's cooking." She plucked a needle out of her chignon and transfigured it into a second spoon. "We'll share it, all right? Rolf's been running me ragged. Quite considerate of you to blow yourself up just now, you know – I really needed a break."

Hermione shook her head. At least she was already in the hospital wing, should there be more to the soup than just spinach. She picked up her spoon.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **So, what do you think?


	24. Grindelwald's Gold

**Grindelwald's Gold**

"I've also brought you something to read," Luna announced after she'd turned the empty soup bowl into a marble and slipped it into her pocket. She rummaged in her tote bag—a bulky thing with bright exotic patterns stitched on the flap—and pulled out a copy of the Quibbler. Beaming, she handed it to Hermione. "The new editor is running an excellent series: Adventures in wizarding archaeology. You'll _love_ that."

Hermione was about to thank Luna and put it aside for later (fully intending to beg Madam Pomfrey for a discrete Vanishing spell), when a headline caught her attention. She quickly scanned the article:

******oooOooo**

******GRINDELWALD'S GOLD IN BRITAIN—DOES SNAPE HAVE SECRETS? DOES MALFOY KNOW MORE?**

_The lost gold of evil wizard Gellert Grindelwald may well be in Britain, admits wizarding archaeologist H.W. Jones Jr._

After investigations in Albania, famous Egyptologist and archaeologist John Carnahan has challenged the common assumption that Tom Marvolo Riddle 'Lord Voldemort' only became interested in Gellert Grindelwald in spring 1998, when he started hunting for the so-called 'Elder Wand'.

"What people fail to realise," reveals Carnahan, "is that Grindelwald's holiday home _Drachenhorst_ is not just any old castle in the Albanian forests: it is the very same castle where Voldemort lay hidden until he could strike a deal with Quirrell in 1991 to smuggle him back into Britain."

******Gold not Gone, Say Experts**

Local legends claim that vast amounts of gold were hidden in the dungeons of _Drachenhorst_—Grindelwald's Gold. But after Grindelwald's defeat at the wand of Albus Dumbledore in 1945, the gold could not be found. Witnesses later maintained that a conditional Vanishing spell activated the moment Grindelwald lost to Dumbledore.

Experts, however, remain dubious. "You don't just _vanish_ gold," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin, displaying several sets of very pointy teeth. "Especially not a treasure hoard so immense it would have financed Grindelwald's Greater Good campaign in wizarding communities all over the world."

******Does Malfoy Know More?**

If Voldemort got the gold, two British wizards may know more: famous Severus Snape and infamous Lucius Malfoy.

Successful spy Snape must know most of Riddle's and Dumbledore's secrets. And luscious Lucius Malfoy acted as treasurer of self-styled 'Dark Lord' Riddle. Yet Malfoy's trial never touched the matter of Grindelwald's gold. Neither wizard has been questioned about this, admits Junior Undersecretary of the Minister of Magic, Theodore Nott. And in spite of the Ministry's current financial straits, no official investigations are under consideration at the moment.

******Hidden at Hogwarts!**

"Rubbish!" cries Bartimaeus Bagshot, younger brother of the late Bathilda Bagshot and formerly neighbour of the Dumbledore family. "Voldemort never got the gold. Dumbledore took it. It's hidden in the dungeons at Hogwarts. If you want the gold, ask Snape, that snake!"

Upon inquiries, a friend of the Snape family…

******oooOooo**

For a second Hermione just stared, not quite sure if she should laugh or cry. Shaking her head, she looked up at her friend and forced herself to return Luna's smile with one of her own.

"Thank you, Luna," she managed. "That is really… very exciting…"

"Oh yes," Luna agreed happily. "And imagine, I met Mr. Jones when I was in Brazil. He's quite dashing, considering that he's about the same age as Professor McGonagall. And he knows some fascinating spells. For instance, he can turn his wand into a whip—very useful in the jungle…"

******oooOooo**

"Bertie wants what??" George, who'd been whistling happily over the draft of a new Wheeze, jerked up, mouth agape, eyes round.

"Bertie Botts wants us to sell Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to him," Ron confirmed.

"Is he completely off his broom? Why—ever—should we do that?"

Ron nodded. "That's exactly what I asked him, too. I mean, business is going real well for us. Mkay, apart from them EMU regulations that are driving me barmy. But, the _real_ business—better than ever, I'd say. Especially once Hannah's sweets hit the shelves, that's gonna be big…" He trailed off, frowning. "Do you think he maybe got wind of that, and wants to buy us out before we end up direct competition to his products? I don't see how, though. Hannah's as trustworthy as they come. Maybe someone at the Leaky got a glimpse of her experiments and put two and two together?"

George grimaced. "I just hope we don't have a leak at the factory. Drat those house-elves. Dobby was a good chap. But you never know exactly where the loyalties of hired elves lie." With a sigh, he rolled up the parchment with the draft. "I'd better Apparate over and check up on the little buggers. And then I might as well go and try to find out what's up with Bertie …"

"Do that," Ron agreed, miserably eyeing miles of parchment rolled up on his desk. Hopefully business in the afternoon would be too brisk for him to have the time to deal with this newest bout of EMU non-sense.

******oooOooo**

In the Great Hall lunch was over. Students left for Quidditch, study groups or club meetings, while others settled down with their homework.

Prue Halleywell waved over to Alina and Gilly, pointing at the empty seats opposite of her, various scrolls, books and quills already spread out, and a paper-bag from Honeydukes to sweeten the ordeal of studying.

Alina (who rather needed some encouragement to face her Arithmancy homework) reached into the bag straight away. What she pulled out looked like a Muggle pencil.

_what's that?_ her quill sketched out. _i've never seen that before_

_A new line of Bertie Botts,_ Prue wrote her reply to Alina by hand. _Great stuff. That's like a sugar quill, just candy-coated. There's also cavity-filling candy. _

Geilis grimaced, pressing her lips tightly together. Prue just grinned and added with her quick, sloppy scrawl: _And_ _Luminous Lollies. And Hand Fudge—don't need to eat it to taste it, just hold it._

_brill, _Alina replied. _that cavity candy is the perfect gift for Hermione, i'll totally get that next Hogsmeade weekend_

**********oooOooo**

* * *

**********A/N: **Everything you recognise from Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" actually belongs to Willy Wonka. Anything you recognise from Indiana Jones also belongs to Indiana Jones. The same goes for "The Mummy".

Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome: if something made you frown or smile, or if there's a line that you really enjoyed ... feel free to drop me a line and let me know.


	25. Rules and Regulations

**Rules and Regulations**

Since Sean Ferguson and his companions had ostensibly just followed the rules, no official punishment could be meted out. But Sunday before dinner, the Headmistress had given a speech. Almost two hours Professor McGonagall had talked about social and civil courage, about rules and regulations and moral imperatives. When she finished, a mere ten minutes were left for dinner…

…and thanks to Alina the whole school knew who was to blame.

**oooOooo**

Before joining the exodus from the Great Hall after lunch on Wednesday, Adrastus Alger and Percely Parkinson waved feebly at Gilly, Prue, and Alina. An imperious gesture at her parchment said clearly that she expected a full report as soon as they were done.

_Done in, more likely,_ Addy groused to himself. He and Perce were the only _'Knights'_ who had to attend Potions study group among the Fifth Years. Alina was thrilled to have inside sources—Addy would be thrilled if he survived today's session with Snape.

The students approached the dungeons with the enthusiasm of convicted prisoners on their way to the gallows. Covert glances followed them to the stairs. Smirks accompanied Sean Cúchulainn Ferguson's every step. Sean was sweating profusely; his complexion had acquired the unhealthy look of mouldy plaster.

As fate would have it, the schedule of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff fifth years gave Sean a lot of time to look forward to meeting Professor Snape that week: they first saw him during study group on Wednesday afternoon, and then again for class on Thursday and Friday.

Monday evening, Barret _'Crudass'_ Cruddace ruled supreme overseeing a sizable betting pool on just how Sean Cúchulainn Ferguson would survive the week. Tuesday morning, Sean was beginning to show signs of strain.

**oooOooo**

Trudging down the stairs, Addy glanced at Perce. "Hurry up, we don't want to be tardy today."

The Hufflepuff nodded, and they jostled their way into the middle of their group. When they reached the dungeons corridor, Addy jerked his head in Sean's direction, who was walking at the front. "At least he's got guts."

Percely's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. "Arrogant jerk."

"That, too."

In the dungeon, everyone scrambled to sit down as swiftly and silently as possible. Addy's stomach tightened with a faint sensation of nausea. He could glimpse beads of sweat glistening on Sean's forehead.

Then the door between the classroom and Snape's office opened. With a menacing rustle of his robes, the Potions master swept in and sat down behind his desk.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted them softly. "I trust you are all well … prepared?"

Almost casually, his gaze swept over his students, six boys, three girls. Suddenly he turned his head and focused on Sean. "And what do I have to see _here,_ Mr. Ferguson? What _is_ that _thing_ in your ear?"

Addy frowned. Sean had worn an earring since his third year.

Sean gulped before he could answer. "An earring, sir."

"What was that?" Snape hissed.

Sean blinked, confused. Obviously he had no idea what Snape was getting at, either. Addy held his breath.

_"Tsk, tsk, tsk._ I hear that rules are very _dear_ to your heart, Mr. Ferguson. Quite a commendable attitude in a young man, may I say that? I am all the more disappointed to find that you don't even know the proper form of address for a Master of his Art teaching at this school. That would be—" Snape smiled almost gently. _"Fifty points_ from Ravenclaw." Addy could see how a shiver ran down Sean's spine.

"Well?" Snape asked silkily.

"It—it is an—an earring, Illustrious Master," Sean choked out. The eyes of the Muggle-born students grew wide. Obviously they'd never heard the ancient address of a guild master before.

_"Tut, tut, tut_. How very disappointing, Mr. Ferguson. Since you hold rules and regulations so dear, I would have surmised that you are aware of the proper _manner_ of address for a teacher at this school … according to the code of conduct of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Snape tapped his long index-finger on an ancient tome that rested on his desk in front of him. "Another fifty points from Ravenclaw." Snape smiled. _"Well?"_

Sean stumbled out from behind his desk. Stiff and sweating, he stood at the ready in front of Snape's desk.

"It is an earring, Illustrious Master," he stammered.

"So it is, so it is," Snape purred, black eyes glittering. "And what, pray-tell, does the code of conduct say about excessive personal ornamentation, Mr. Ferguson?"

"I—" Sean gulped again. "I—don't know—Illustrious Master."

"You don't know." Snape slowly shook his head. "How. Sad."

The only other Ravenclaw present, a Muggle-born girl, winced. Addy was not surprised, when Snape added, "And another fifty points from Ravenclaw."

Suddenly a wand appeared in the teacher's hand. "Now allow me to enlighten you about the exact content of the rules, Mr. Ferguson."

With a muffled moan, Sean grabbed at his ear.

"You see, Mr. Ferguson, the rules demand that I provide you with the opportunity to experience the full weight of your vanity. _Literally._ Your inordinate adornment was transfigured into stone. Stone ten times the weight of the original gimcrack. Please do not try to remove it—it is Stuck to your skin so you can repent your fulsome vanity _at leisure."_

**oooOooo**

When Adrastus and Percely emerged from the dungeons, a crowd was gathered in front of the hourglasses.

Within just two hours, Ravenclaw's magnificent mountain of three hundred and thirty-seven points had diminished to a minor mole-hill of a mere eighty-seven sapphires. A gleeful Crudass was counting his winnings, while Alina greeted them with a broad grin.

_AND?_ she mouthed.

"Turns out that Sean there doesn't know all that much about school rules," Addy replied, scribbling the words on a frayed parchment for Alina.

"And to be perfectly honest," he added with a weary grin of his own, _"I_ would have been a tad disappointed if Snape didn't know them just a _bit_ better than that fuckwit."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N:** Adrastus Alger is a Gryffindor and a member of the "Little Knights". Percely Parkinson is Pansy's little brother, the only Hufflepuff of his family, and also a member of the "Little Knights".

"Illustrious Master" is a play on forms of address used in certain historical Orders and Guilds.

Many thanks to Juniperus for helping me come up with ideas for Snape acting as a stickler for historical rules and regulations obviously no longer enforced at Hogwarts nowadays ...

I hope you enjoyed today's set of episodes!


	26. Thus the Cookie Crumbles

**Thus the Cookie Crumbles**

_**(for Scoffy, aka sc010f on LiveJournal, whose journal title got stuck in my mind)**_

"I knew you would like that article," Luna beamed. Then her smile faded and she blinked, her eyes growing round and owlish. _"Oh!_ I almost forgot."

She picked up her bag and began to search through it. At last she extracted a package wrapped in sandwich paper and triumphantly brandished it.

"Cookies!" Luna announced. "Triple chocolate cookies from Starbucks."

Hermione couldn't keep the corners of her mouth from twitching into a smile.

The cookie was great—kept fresh by a convenient spell. If Hermione closed her eyes, she could imagine sitting in the Starbucks closest to the National Gallery with her mother…

But she was lying in her bed in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. And Luna Lovegood was keeping her company, while her husband terrorised one of her study groups. A lump formed in her throat. Suddenly the sweet, rich morsels of cookie and chocolate felt like sawdust in her mouth.

A nervous gesture, her hand sneaked up to rub her eyes—and encountered the eye patch. She let her hand fall as if burnt. Instinctively, she must have tightened her grip on the cookie.

It broke apart.

Sweet crumbs rained down on her lap.

"We're all breaking apart," Hermione whispered.

She hadn't meant to say that. Least of all to Luna. Such confidences were really not her style. "When we really should be all right. There's no V–Voldemort. No more N–Necromancers. We sh–should be okay. I'm back. Everything is all right. Really. B–b–but we're all of us breaking apart. It's not fair."

The tears burnt painfully under the patch and she had to ball her fists to keep from dashing at her eyes. Swallowing _hurt._ Her nose stung as if she'd inhaled chilli pepper.

"I just don't get it," Hermione mumbled. "They should be okay. Even if I'm not."

Luna didn't flinch. She didn't blink, look away or tighten her shoulders. She just gazed quietly at Hermione, her eyes huge, limpid.

"Why?" Hermione asked. _"Why?" _

Luna looked at the crumbled cookie in Hermione's lap. "It's because you were their yeast," she declared.

"What?"

"Yeast," Luna explained serenely. "You're like yeast. _Saccharomyces cerevisiae_. That is an organism used by Muggles and wizards alike as a leavening agent for baking. It converts the fermentable sugars in the dough into carbon dioxide. It's what makes dough expand or rise."

Luna waved her wand over the cookie and whispered, _"Reparo." _The fragments of the cookie realigned themselves in Hermione's lap. Luna picked it up and held it out to Hermione once more.

"Though I think this cookie was actually made with baking soda. Which is slightly different." She frowned. "Anyway, it's what you do, don't you? Make people expand, and grow. Even to the point that Harry and Snape can get along. You know, I have a theory about that."

Hermione stared at the cookie in her hand. But Luna went on blithely. "It's because you care. _So much. _About Harry. And Ron. About hippogriffs and house elves. About what is Good. And what is Evil. About all kinds of things, even if they are nasty. Like Snape. _Umm._ I probably shouldn't call your husband nasty, should I?"

"No," Hermione managed. "That's quite all right."

"Well," Luna concluded. "I guess they all did what cookies do if left to their own devices. They crumbled a bit. But for all that they're still sweet and good."

Hermione sat in her bed and stared at Luna, at a loss for words.

Luna gazed at her, earnestly. All at once her wide-eyed look was disconcertingly penetrating. "Hermione, life may grind us down to cookie crumbles, but that won't change what and who we are. It's still us who get to cast _'reparo' _when all is said and done."

Once more the absence of her wands cut Hermione, acute and painful as the absence of a limb. And once again she couldn't silence the voice at the back of her mind that insisted, _"This is no less than you deserve…"_

**oooOooo**

Severus slumped down into his chair and cupped his throbbing forehead in his hands, completely exhausted.

…Barret Cruddace at least should be very happy with the how the afternoon had turned out. And being the Gryffindor fool that he was, he'd probably share the proceeds with the rest of the little self-appointed Don Quixotes prancing about the castle these days.

The Potions Master dropped his hands and stared at them. How he'd longed to wring Sean Cúchulainn Ferguson's stringy little neck.

"So much for hoping that Hogwarts will be a peaceful place after Voldemort's demise," he muttered.

As if to prove his point, someone knocked on the door of his office.

"What?" he snapped irritably.

"Don't tell me," Harry commented dryly. "It's a bad time for you right now."

"If you know that," Severus drawled, "why are you still here?"

"I need to talk," Harry replied. His wand pointed ahead and to the floor. Obviously he was using some non-verbal spell for guidance and secure footing, as he cautiously walked into the room.

"By all means, do come in," Severus asked snidely. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. You know my door is always open for you."

Harry actually grinned at him—a disconcerting sight, Lily's smile beneath those dead black eyes. "I knew I could count on you."

He fumbled along the outline of the chair and let himself fall with a barely noticeable sigh of relief. Severus winced internally. Magic could replace a missing sense—but at an expense of considerable energy. It was a testament to the strength of Harry's magic that the blind man managed to get around almost as if he was able to see by now.

For a few minutes they sat in silence, separated by Severus' desk, a symbol of too many years spent as student and teacher, as penitent and saviour.

Finally Severus shook his head and snapped his fingers. At once a house-elf appeared.

"A bottle of Ogden's," Severus ordered. "And two glasses."

* * *

**********A/N: **Sorry that it's been so long. Sorry that it's just one chapter. But I've been rather busy with the online writers' workshop that I'm a co-mod of. We're running our second evvah SMUT writing workshop over at "There and Back Again" (link on my FFNet profile), and I'm contributing a big fat essay. Also, I've been doing some original art and some fan art. So I've been a busy little bee all around.

That said, I hope you like this chapter, and I'll try to churn out a complete set tomorrow.


	27. Naught but Grief and Pain

**Just to recapitulate:** Once Lucius Malfoy found out about Scorpius, Draco and Hannah, he went straight ahead and sued for custody of his grandson.

**

* * *

oooOooo  
**

**Naught but Grief and Pain for Promised Joy**

Shaking with rage, his hands curled so hard around the edges of the Daily Prophet that the paper crumpled and ripped.

'How dare they?' Lucius snarled. 'How dare these imbeciles slander my name like that?' Whirling around to face his wife, he nearly lost his balance. He kept forgetting that these days, he really needed his cane. For a second he tottered, then he regained his footing. That only added to his anger. Face flushed, he shoved the paper in front of Narcissa's face. When his wife almost imperceptibly shrank back in the face of his fury, he had to clench his teeth to suppress the urge to scream at her. But he kept his temper. He did not raise his hand to her, merely tightened his grip around his cane.

'No Joy for Malfoy'—fat and smug the letters jostled each other in the middle of the front-page.

And beneath the headline, there were heads. _Photographs._ Three of them. To the left, a picture of Draco—his beautiful, beautiful son, smiling, alive—Lucius knew that picture so well, every angle, every nuance, every shadow… It was the last picture taken of Draco before he died. It sat in a sombre wooden frame lined in black on his desk in the study. Another, smaller version framed in gold was on his bedside table. And a third, miniature version pressed against his heart ensconced in a medallion and hidden in an inside pocket of the waistcoat he wore underneath his robes.

He stared down at his wife. Stiffly immaculate she reclined in her armchair. The ice-blue folds of her dressing gown clung in elegantly folds to her slender frame. But the paper in her hands was rustling ever so slightly as she couldn't keep her hands from trembling. Unshed tears softened her cool gaze.

Lucius looked away and scowled at the photo near the right-hand frame of the article. The picture showed a young woman with a round face, sweetly flushed cheeks and blond curls, kept short in a modern, Muggle-style haircut.

'Just look at that _slut,'_ he hissed. 'Seducing my beautiful boy, subverting his convictions, stealing his seed…and they _hail_ her as a heroine?'

He shuddered with revulsion. 'I need to Owl our lawyer again. It is absolutely impossible that it is taking so long to schedule an appeal with the Wizengamot. If they are not successful within a week, "Stryver and Carton" shall suffer my wrath…and have to do without the custom of our family in the future—after a mere 144 years.'

Lucius was about to turn laboriously and stalk off, when he noticed how Narcissa stroked the image of the laughing little boy in the middle with a gentle caress. Glancing up, she guiltily snatched back her hand.

'Such a beautiful child,' she said, her voice careful and calm. 'Just like Draco at that age.'

'He's a Malfoy, after all,' Lucius snapped. 'Though Draco's demeanour was far nobler, even at that tender age.'

Narcissa inclined her head and looked at the picture again. 'I wonder if he started talking early, like Draco...'

'If he is at all his father's son, of course he did. Draco was not even a year old, after all, when he spoke his first word—and already called me "sir".' Involuntarily, Lucius reached up and touched his robe just under his heart, where the medallion with Draco's picture was safely tucked away in the inner pocket of his waistcoat. He remembered Draco's tiny, triangular face tilted up at him. Those wide grey eyes. That endearing, sombre expression. And the high, sweet voice of a toddler…

**oooOooo**

Severus watched how Harry's nostrils flared slightly. Unerringly, the blind man reached out for his glass of Ogden's. Maybe his Auror training was not wasted after all.

He raised his own glass and took a deep swallow. Liquid fire blazed down his throat and oesophagus, filling the pit of his stomach with a fiery glow. For a long moment, Severus stared at Harry. He thought of Abbé Rigaud, and of Nihel.

_I am not a Catholic,_ he thought. _I do not even believe in God. Why then, do I feel the need to confess my sins—and why to Harry, of all people? If you will, the son of my greatest sin…_

He swallowed again, but all he tasted was bitterness.

'When I brought Hermione back to Hogwarts,' he said abruptly, 'and she couldn't see the castle…I did not handle that well. I was…_cruel._ Violent.'

He wanted to close his eyes. Not that it mattered—Harry couldn't see him anyway, after all. But he did not. The silence felt cold and tight around his throat. His scar seemed to throb, almost like a snake slithering inside his skin.

'Well?' he demanded. 'Goddamn it, Harry. Say something!'

Harry put his glass on the table. A less observant drinking companion would have missed the quick gesture that ascertained the height of the table.

'Hermione says that she was hysterical. She says that you helped her.'

Black eyes met Severus' gaze. Briefly, he wondered what exactly it was that Harry was still able to see.

'That is enough for me,' Harry added.

Incredulous, Severus blinked. _'That is enough for you?'_

Swallowing hurt, as if the scar was still new, the tissue tight and sore.

'How,' he asked softly, dangerously, 'can that possibly be enough for you?'

With a groan, Harry let himself fall back into his chair and slapped his right palm against his forehead. Sighing, he proceeded to rub his temples, carefully avoiding to touch his eyes.

'How can it not be?' he retorted. 'Would you feel better if I attacked you, insulted you, accused you of abuse? Wait a second—' Harry blinked at him, as he processed the idea. 'That's it, though, isn't it? You _would_ feel better if I did.'

When Severus couldn't bring himself to reply, Harry shook his head. 'Wow, you're really messed up, do you know that?'

Severus reached for the bottle. 'Another whisky?'

**oooOooo**

* * *

**********A/N: **The title of the chapter is a quote from a poem by Robert Burns.

'Stryver and Carton' are a homage to Charles Dickens.


	28. Sixth Sense

**Sixth Sense**

'…he was such a beautiful boy,' Lucius murmured, preening at one of his fondest memories of Draco's childhood.

Narcissa regarded her husband intently. She knew this handsome, proud smile _so well._ And the story to go with it. Lucius loved to boast with this little anecdote—even more when it started to embarrass Draco.

Lucius had even related that story to the Dark Lord.

To this day, Narcissa wondered if that was the reason why Lucius had never risen to the inner circle of Voldemort.

Because she remembered what really happened. Draco's face, when Lucius snarled at him, forbidding him to repeat the first word her son had ever spoken—saying _'Mum–muh'_ was uncouth, not befitting a Malfoy, no matter how young he was.

_She_ was to be 'mother'. Never 'Mum' or 'Mummy'.

…and Lucius?

_'Sir'._

Narcissa stared at the small black-and-white picture in the Daily Prophet, at the round face of a smiling toddler with Draco's eyes. Her eyes started burning, and she blinked quickly. Her grandson's image wavered and faded before her.

Once more she saw her own precious baby's face, scrunched up and crumpled in despair and confusion. Once more she heard Draco's voice, eagerly mimicking Lucius' endless repetitions of 'sir', 'sir', 'sir'…

_Why,_ she wondered, _why was it always all or nothing for her husband?_

If only he had not gone directly to his lawyers. If he had at least tried to come to an understanding with his son and the mother of his grandson…

She might have been able to meet her grandson by now. She might know what his voice sounded like. She might tell him that she could be his grandmother.

Or his granny.

Or his _gram._

Narcissa raised her head and met her husband's eyes. 'Do not forget that I have—' She caught herself. 'That I _love_ our son, too.'

Lucius' gaze turned icy.

'You _do?'_ he sneered. 'Or you _did?'_

**oooOooo**

'Cheers.' Harry raised his glass to Severus.

In previous years, he would have snarled the boy out the door, out of the castle and right into the soft, squishy embrace of the Giant Squid.

Today he only slumped back in his chair and downed his fire-whisky.

The young man on the other side of the table raked both hands through his messy black hair, just the way Severus had seen his father do it countless times, to his immense irritation…It was exactly the same gesture.

And yet it was completely different.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and middle finger of his left hand.

'I…am sorry,' Severus muttered. 'I—should have seen long ago that you are not your father. Or a symbol for my sins.'

'I'm neither. So good of you to notice after a mere 23 years,' Harry stated flatly. 'Look, Hermione's not a saint or made of porcelain. I mean, look at what she made it through! If she tells me she's okay with what you did—mind, she did say how she didn't much like it, but she's okay with it anyway—then I believe her. And so should you.'

Again Harry's hands disappeared into messy tufts of black hair.

Severus decided that he hated the gesture all for its own sake.

'I think I've messed up my marriage,' Harry mumbled.

'And you think I can help you?' Severus asked incredulously.

'Ron's so…awfully happily married.' Harry shrugged. 'And I trust you.'

Severus stared at Harry, while a strange and terrible pressure seemed to squeeze his heart like shrivelfig. 'But—' He suppressed the urge to lick suddenly dry lips or swallow the bile he tasted at the back of his throat.

_'Oh, shoot!'_ Harry exclaimed. 'I didn't mean to imply you're not! Happily married, I mean.' Dryly, he added, 'But you _definitely_ know about unhappiness and messing up. So I figure I can talk to you about the mess I made without you freaking out, you know?'

**oooOooo**

Half an hour later, Severus impatiently shook his head. 'Though I am loathe to admit it, I sympathize with your reasoning. The execution of your plan, however? _Abysmal._'

He gave in to the urge and started pacing the length of his office, relieving some of the tension that had accumulated during the conversation. At last he halted mid-stride and turned to face Harry. Standing still, he shivered, feeling strangely exposed.

_As if he was teaching class, wearing nothing beneath his robes but his skin…_

All of a sudden he was glad that Harry could not see that in the flickering shadows of the dungeon, between torchlight, firelight and witchlight, one shadow had gone missing once again.

'You cannot keep them safe,' Severus stated coldly. 'Don't you think your father tried to keep you and your mother safe? When Voldemort returns, no one will be safe. Not Ginny, not James-Hermes. Not _Hermione. _No Muggle, and no witch or wizard will be safe. Do you want them to face their fate as blind as you are? _As you were before?'_

'But what can they do?' snapped Harry. 'What could they possibly accomplish against Voldemort?'

Severus smirked. 'What could a helpless baby _possibly_ accomplish against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Or a young man destined to die…' He returned to his seat. 'I understand that you are scared, Harry.—So am I.' He took a careful breath. 'Both of us have everything to lose.'

A life. My love. _Hermione._

'And Voldemort has everything to gain. Revenge. Power. _Life.'_ Severus shivered, as he always did when his shadow was gone. He ignored his discomfort, concentrating on the young man before him.

'But we are not helpless,' he suggested with more conviction than he actually felt. 'What do you see with your blind eyes, Harry? Why have you refused implants so far?'

Harry exhaled in a sigh, his shoulders slumping in relief. When he turned his face toward Severus, a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

'I see dead people,' Harry said. 'And _shadows.' _

Suddenly he smirked. 'And maybe even demons.'

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N:** 5 House points for everyone who spots the quote from the movie Sixth Sense.

I hope you enjoyed today's set of episodes!


	29. The Unbearable Lightness of Being

**The Unbearable Lightness of Being**

After Harry left, Severus allowed himself precisely one minute and forty-three seconds to sit in with his face buried in his hands, overwhelmed and weary to the bone. His earlier words seemed to echo in the gloom of his office: _Both of us have everything to lose._

And Voldemort as a demon of the Greater Dead had truly everything to gain.

_Everything to lose. _As Severus dwelt on that thought, a curious lightness began to spread through him with every breath he took.

Hermione. His young, brilliant, compassionate wife. Alina. A student under his protection. A clever, gifted girl he held dear – almost, he imagined in a rare flight of fancy, like a daughter.

More names surfaced, and the lightness that filled him grew almost unbearable: Minerva, who'd come for him as he stood amid the ruins of his old life. Muriel, poking and prodding and berating him, almost as if he were not a former Death Eater, traitor-hero-murderer, but just another patient and deserving of her care. Lois, who was so much more than just a Muggle speech-therapist.

… Bill Weasley who included him in the circle of camaraderie that always surrounded the young DADA teacher in the staff room so effortlessly as if Severus truly belonged among them.

Severus inhaled as if to steel himself for a blow as he forced himself to confront the next name.

_Harry Potter._

No longer a living symbol for guilt, grief, fear, deeds unforgiveable and foul … and a love not meant to be. No longer The-Boy-Who-Lived however many times.

Instead – Severus exhaled very softly – _just …_ Harry Potter.

And a friend now, too.

**oooOooo**

The castle lay weighted down with the sated silence of dinner when Severus ascended unusually meek stairs to the hospital wing with swift, soft strides.

In front of the door to Hermione's room, Severus hesitated. The effort of will that had taken him here faltered. At the end of the corridor an Oriel window beckoned with welcome respite. As slow steps took him towards the high pointed arches, his mind provided him with convenient excuses to justify this detour: Just a breath of fresh air after a day in the dungeons. Only a quick look around to ascertain that no teenaged miscreant were outside skipping dinner in order to get into more malignant mischief.

Simply staring at the sky, wondering …

This was a different situation, of course. He _knew_ that. Everything was different for him and Hermione. He was not his father. Nor his mother. He was a wizard. Hermione was a witch.

_Still … _that did not put them on even ground by any means. At the time of their marriage age, experience and their relationship as Master and Apprentice had set them apart. Since then life and Death – a bitter smirk quirked his lips –, had cruelly annihilated what hopes he might have harboured for time to provide a more equal balance between them. At least for the foreseeable future …

And nowhe had reacted with violence in a situation when gentle support had been called for. Of course he realised that his reaction had occurred in a very specific situation. Shock. Hysterics. And Harry had already told him that Hermione had forgiven him.

_Still …_ the fact remained that he had failed Hermione. And while she might forgive what she would – and should! – otherwise condemn in her current, needy, fragile state, he could not absolve himself that easily from his transgression.

Severus leant heavily on the window sill.

Violence had always been a part of his life. Growing up in Spinner's End had meant growing up with violence in many guises; even if his own father had rarely raised his hand to wife and son, at least compared to the standards of the neighbourhood. Later, at Hogwarts, violence had accompanied him on a daily basis, both in his own House and in his confrontations with members of other Houses. While a constrained manner and reserved conduct had been his trademark as a Death Eater, violence permeated those circles. And then came the war with all its consequences …

In spite of the warm light of the spring sunset he was facing, Severus shivered. This time he did not permit himself another sigh. Instead he straightened his shoulders and turned away from the sun.

_Enough with the maudlin and moanin'._

**oooOooo**

When he finally entered the room, the experience was anticlimactic.

Hermione was asleep.

He used magic to move noiselessly and settled in the visitor's chair. On the beside cabinet sat a plate with a cookie – the soft, squishy, American kind. A visitor must have left it for her; Hogwarts House-elves didn't care for foreign food.

Hermione lay on her side, eye patch pressed into the pillow, her body curled protectively around her injured hand. A stray curl fluttered whenever she exhaled. Severus noticed that this particular strand of hair was so light it looked nearly amber. Further careful scrutiny revealed that her magic must be returning already: the countless tiny scratches the explosion had left on her skin were vanishing.

Severus relaxed minutely in his seat. At least her body was healing. How long would it take for her magic to recharge completely? Monday her powers had been depleted to the point where Hogwarts had not recognised her as a witch. Now, only two days later, her magic was already strong enough to start healing her.

Severus frowned. What did that mean? His mind began to dissect the puzzle.

Hermione's magic seemed to be getting used to an unnatural process of depletion and regeneration. And with every cycle more magical energy returned to her quicker. For a moment he considered if this phenomenon could be employed as a method to increase the strength of any wizard. When he returned to his contemplation of what this must mean for Hermione, a muscle at the corner of his mouth started spasming.

A heartbeat later his merciless mind presented him with a logical and utterly devastating conclusion.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Just as I promised: it's June and I have a bit of time for fanfic writing again at long last. As it's been a while since the last update, please read the first chapters of this story again before asking me about things you don't understand. (It's answering questions or writing new chapters, my friends – the choice is yours!) Apart from that, please feel free to leave a comment. Thank you for reading, and I hope you like this chapter.

**P.S.:** Just to reassure everyone – I am already working on the next chapter. I definitely won't leave you dangling from that cliffie for six months.


	30. Measure for Measure

**Measure for Measure**

"An inevitable spiral of self-destruction," Severus summed up, his voice too cool, too impassive. "This incident proves that you cannot control or contain your magic anymore. Worse, whenever I take the surplus magic from you, your energy returns quicker and stronger."

_"Wow."_ A sound. A gasp – not a word. A painful cough to clear her throat.

"Wow," Hermione repeated hoarsely.

Then silence spread, wrapped the room into its invisible cocoon. The only sound came from the cat, as Crookshanks noisily revved up his purring. Hermione's fingers trailed the bandages around her right hand. Then she raised her left to inspect the scratches that covered it. Those wounds had been quite deep, caused by sharp splinters embedded in her flesh. Now some were scabbed over, others nothing but pink marks. Faint and thin, they looked like well-healed claw-marks of a playful kitten, nothing more. Certainly not like scars left by a nearly fatal explosion.

"Is there a way we can measure the process?" Hermione asked. "Not just how quickly my magic is returning, but how strong?"

Severus stared at her, black eyes glittering. He sat unnaturally still. Only that tiny muscle that kept twitching at the corner of his mouth betrayed his agitation. When he replied, he spoke slowly and carefully, as if he was trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I … don't think anyone … has ever tried to … measure magic. That … is a very … Muggle concept."

Hermione smirked – the very notion that Muggles could come up with something useful! Even Severus was not free from those old-fashioned prejudices. "Still, it might come in handy right now."

He raised a finger, trailing his thin lips. The muscle in his cheek quieted. He must have been afraid how she'd react to the news, Hermione realised, scared of more screaming, more hysterics.

"Yes," he agreed softly, "it would be extremely useful in your case. And not only there … But this is magic, Hermione, not Muggle science. The most important magical law is still that magic defies such strictures."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I know that! I think it's still worth a try." She fell silent, pondering the problem, objectively, dispassionately – as if it was a question in an exam, not a question of her life … and, eventually, her death.

_Light, maybe,_ she thought. _The Lumos spell. Muggles measured light all the time. Its intensity, its frequency, its polarisation._

But she couldn't cast the spell – and if she could, they wouldn't have to measure her magic in the first place! _Damn it! _Her throat constricted, tears burnt in her eyes. Pain seared through her, as she involuntarily tried to ball her hands into fists. _"Damn it!"_ she exclaimed and dashed at her good eye with a shaking hand. "I'm better, Severus, I'm really, really better. I've done everything the healers told me to do! I've never skipped a therapy session, and God knows that I'm not the type who enjoys that endless navel-gazing! I should be better now! I should have been able to pick up a wand! I wanted to! _So much!"_

Severus' eyes glittered darkly as he watched her, but his face betrayed no emotion. "You may have wanted to pick up _a wand,_ Hermione," he said softly, "and I wouldn't blame you if it was just to hex Ferguson and his cronies into tomorrow. But obviously that wasn't enough. Magic is more than its tools and toys – wands, spells, and charms. It's not as simple as getting on the _broo…_ as getting on a horse again after you've been thrown off. Your magic must become a part of you again."

"I know!" shouted Hermione. "I know that! Why do you think I've been doing all that therapy? Because I enjoy it so much to talk about the time when I thought I'd killed you and Harry?" She pressed her lips together. She refused to start wailing like a hysterical child.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. The muscle at his mouth was jumping again nervously, betraying just how tense her husband was. "Muggle therapy may not be enough," he said at last. "I dare say it has helped you with the … the mundane, psychological trauma. Your attacks of agoraphobia and claustrophobia have diminished. Your nightmares are not as severe as they were. We have always known that magic is affected by emotions, so it did make sense to assume that as you healed emotionally, you would also heal magically. However, that is clearly not happening. Consequently there are two alternatives: either we are dealing with a specific after-effect of the leeching curse, or what you need is some kind of magical therapy."

"Only of course there is nothing like that," Hermione said bitterly. "As the residents of the Janus Thickey Ward can attest. It's like measuring magic – one of those weird _Muggle_ things. Unless we can fix something with some foolish wand waving, we're more helpless than Muggles if something goes wrong."

Again silence. Caustic, constraining, an invisible, inescapable web.

"I'm not giving up," Hermione insisted suddenly. "Not yet."

Aghast, Severus jumped up. "Do you think _I'm_ giving up on you? _Hermione –"_

"No! No! Of course not!" Hermione was instantly on her feet, something she regretted instantly as the room pulsed in grey and white and black around her. She swayed, and if Severus hadn't caught her, she would have fallen.

When she was safely back in her bed, Severus sat down at her side, gently cradling her hands. "I'll never give up on you, Hermione," he whispered. _"Never."_

"I know," she replied, squeezing his fingers lightly with her left hand. "I know." The intensity of his declaration almost scared her. What if they were forced to give up in the end? What would that do to him? She shuddered.

"Look at it this way," she said at last, her smile a little forced and rather lop-sided, "we'll pioneer in applied magical metaphysics. What an opportunity for academics like us!"

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **"Measure for measure" is, of course, an allusion to the play and the original Biblical quote.

As always, thank you for reading, and please feel free to leave a comment – if not for this story, maybe for another author? Comments are the only remuneration fanfic authors receive apart from the joy of writing itself ...


	31. Happy Hoppy

**Happy Hoppy**

Friday morning. Ron manned the shop, while George was away somewhere being George. Outside sprightly spring sunshine (promising light showers later), was enticing early shoppers to stroll along Diagon Alley or to prowl Knockturn Alley.

However, it was both the wrong time of day and the wrong day of the week for a joke shop. Students usually showed up in the afternoon, and, apart from the hols, mostly on Saturday. Apprentices and journeymen (and -women) normally reached the point where they wanted to stuff their master's toilet with firecrackers on Wednesday. On Friday morning they were counting off the minutes until they'd sit in front of a butterbeer at the Leaky. Owl orders tended to flood in Mondays and Tuesdays and taper off towards the weekend.

So Ron was all alone in a room full of fake wands, Skiving Snackboxes, Ton Tongue Toffees, Champagne Fountains, Weasley Clocks (the royalties they had to pay to their mother were making his accountant's heart bleed every month) … scrolls upon scrolls of EMU forms, rules and regulations – damn that Fudge and his fubar paperwork! –, and his ledgers.

Normally, Ron really liked his job. He loved his brother. He was incredibly proud of the shop. And his work … he'd never admit it to anyone but Lois, but book keeping, having long, long columns of galleons, sickles and knuts add up perfectly, left him with a sense of quiet accomplishment and contentment.

Not today, though. For the third time in as many minutes he glanced out of the window and up into the sky, hoping to catch sight of one of the shop's scoundrel owls, bearing news from St Mungo's. It seemed that Hermione was always in and out of the hospital these days. That couldn't be healthy.

_"Dammit,"_ Ron grumbled his favourite Muggle curse. He hated having to stay behind and wait. _Hated it._ Lois wasn't even a witch, and she got to be there! Harry was there, too, although he couldn't even see. Snape was there, of course, and Ron supposed he couldn't complain about that. The git was married to her, after all. But d_ammit._ _He _was worried about Hermione, too.

"Measuring magic," he muttered. "And how's that supposed to keep Hermione from blowing herself up?" He scowled at his ledgers. He might be good with numbers and have a knack for strategy. But magical theory was beyond him.

He rose from his chair and aimlessly circled the shop. His legs itched as if he'd been hit by a mild version of the Tarantellagra jinx. Unable to settle down again, he stepped outside. Fresh air. His mum swore by it. Unfortunately, outside Ron found not only fresh air, but a huge, sparkling poster about Cornelius Fudge's un-campaign to be elected president of the European Magical Union.

At least the sight of Fudge's unctuous smile made him return inside and sit down at the desk again to pore over the new set of forms that had only been delivered last night.

_Merlin, they had to apply for yet another concession?_ Ron groaned and picked up the enchanted magnifying glass to study the fine print. If he didn't know better, he'd almost start thinking someone was trying to bureaucratise the Wheezes out of business.

**oooOooo**

The doorbell danced a jig and Ron wondered where it had picked up the tune it played – the melody sounded suspiciously like "Short People", a Muggle song that Ron hadn't understood at all when he'd first heard it.

But he promptly dropped his gaze – sometimes House-elves came in to do the shopping for their masters and mistresses.

Nothing.

But the door kept singing. Ron blinked and lowered his gaze another foot. What in Merlin's name _was_ that? The diminutive creature that had entered the shop was even smaller than a House-elf, standing barely higher than Ron's knee. With its long, golden hair and rosy-cheeked glow it could have been a cherub. Only it was thin, dressed, and had no wings. And it was crooning under its breath.

Ron frowned. "If you're going to Diagon Alley" – sung to the melody of "If you're going to San Francisco"? Was this one of those Happy – Hippo – Hoppies that Lois had told him about? She'd also called them "flower children". That would at least explain why it was so small.

He cleared his throat. "Good morning. How can Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes be of service?" he asked politely.

The blond creature whirled around to face him. Angelic blue eyes peered up at him. In a high, melodic sing-song voice, it replied:

_"Buying samples for the master,  
don't forget the Pleasure Plaster,  
Must have something of everything,  
or the master's whip will sting."_

"You want to buy everything once?" Ron gaped at the little hoppie. "Why? And how are you going to carry all that stuff?"

_"All and sundry,  
most of all the candy.  
Higglety-pigglety into the bag  
everything goes and then on my back."_

The hoppie showed Ron a small, brown bag. It didn't look big enough to hold more than a lolly. But then, at first glance you wouldn't think that Hermione's beaded bag contained a whole library, either.

"Well, if you're sure …" Ron trailed off, eyeing the little man dubiously. Then he remembered his manners and added: _"Err…_ if you need help getting something off a shelf, just holler and I'll get it for you, right? And … _uh…_ one piece of everything, that's what you said, yes? You wouldn't mind if I started preparing the bill right away, would you? Even with a Quick Quotes Quill that'll take me a while."

The hoppie bowed deeply.

_"Please just chill –"_

The chanted reply turned into a proper song, trilled at the top of the hoppie's voice.

_"– Prepare the bill,  
and your wi–"_

Abruptly, the creature fell silent, hopped from one foot to the other, muttering: "Master says no singing. _No._ _Singing."_ The hoppie sniffed. "Bill will be fine, good sir. And now I must collect my purchases, please."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **"Scoundrel owl"/Sceloglaux is the genus of the laughing owl of New Zealand, extinct since 1914. Maybe some of them survived in secret ... maybe Luna and Rolf discovered some and saved them, giving them to Ron and George. However it came about, it seems to be the perfect kind of owl for a joke shop to use.

More about the "hoppie" in the next chapter. For the time being, you're invited to guess what that's all about.

Thank you for reading and for your very kind comments!


	32. Sinister Songs

**Sinister Songs**

Ron watched as the little creature hopped from shelf to shelf, filling its bag. For all its cherub-like appearance, he couldn't shake the impression of something sinister lurking under the limpid surface of its baby-blue eyes.

At the very least, its constant humming and chanting made it impossible to concentrate on his ledgers. While the Quick-Quotes Quill tallied up a whopping bill, Ron listened to the hoppie's chanting, trying to understand what slipped out between its litany of _"Master says no singing. No. Singing."_

His fingers itched for an Extendable Ear. But in the small shop, even a Muggle would have noticed that.

The hoppie reached for a Skiving Snackbox. Giggling, it broke into song:

_"Fudge wants much,  
without a catch,  
but as he'll see  
nothing's for free.  
Tee hee hee!"_

_If only, _Ron thought. Nothing would please him more than seeing Fudge's un-campaign grind to a gritty halt. Now the creature moved on to the Wheezes' selection of magical party hats (Shield Hats, Headless Hats, Umbrella Hats, Music Hats …).

_"When Fudge's in a pickle,  
he's not looking for a Sickle.  
And Malfoy's short  
Grindelwald's hoard."_

The hoppie cackled like mad and jigged over to the next stack of merchandise, this time Patented Daydream Charms and the brand new Romance Rounders. Ron was sorely tempted to try and tackle the beastie. Fudge? Malfoy? Grindelwald? Clearly, whatever this creature was—it was up to no good.

_"Have you been naughty  
or have you been nice?  
Oh, never you mind!  
The bogeyman kills you in a trice."_

"What the bloody hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"Ron asked before he could stop himself.

The little golden-haired hoppy halted, gazed up at him with those seemingly innocent eyes, and muttered frantically: "No singing, the master said. _No. Singing."_ Then it ordered briskly: "The bill, if you will, good sir, without err."

Ron rolled his eyes and reached for the scroll with the bill.

"A signature," he requested. "Here."

He glanced at the sum, to see if everything added up properly—Luna's spell that kept the exaggerations of the Quick-Quotes Quill in check wasn't completely reliable yet.

123 Galleons, 56 Sickles, 78 Knuts and 89 Muggle Pence. Ron had no idea why the quill had included Muggle coinage in the sum. And he knew he ought to check that. But the hoppie was giving him a headache with all that humming, making him feel decidedly unprofessional.

Unfortunately, the angelic little creature simply paid up, including exactly eighty-nine shiny Muggle Pence in newly minted condition.

Checking carefully the contents of its bag, the hoppie chanted under its breath:

_"The bogeyman, he comes at night,  
what a horrible and awful fright!  
Listen how the mothers wail:  
'Will Great Death always prevail?'  
But the answer to this riddle  
is not just any kind of fiddle!  
Light without shadow must shine,  
life from the darkness must spring.  
When mutes can sing,  
and blinds can see,  
and magic needs no wizardry,  
death conquers death,  
and those madness possessed."_

Hissing the last syllables, it was gone. Without so much as a by-your-leave, offering a business card or at least announcing its impending Apparition, as any polite wizard, witch or well-trained House-elf would do.

Ron gaped at the spot where the hoppie had disappeared. For a moment he thought he could still hear an echo of its strange sing-song voice floating on the air:

_"The bogeyman, he comes at night,  
devouring children as they sleep –  
just like you, he has to eat!"_

**oooOooo**

The rest of the day Ron couldn't concentrate on the simplest task in the shop. After adding two plus two and coming up with five no less than three times in a row, he gave up on his book-keeping and just sat at his desk, staring off into space.

The first few verses he'd overheard, seemed like a warped kind of political commentary.

That Fudge wanted much was plain to see. _And if there is a sticky end waiting for the git, all the better, _Ron thought uncharitably. Also, hadn't he seen a headline about Grindelwald's gold in the Quibbler a while ago?

And the first rhyme about the bogeyman sounded very much like something from "Babbity Rabbity's Nursery Rhymes".

But the long bit, that worried him. It sounded almost like a prophecy.

Though, could magical creatures even _make_ prophecies? He couldn't remember; his memories of Divination were rather fuzzy apart from the fun he'd had with Harry making up prophecies of doom. And in retrospect that didn't seem all that funny anymore, given how a prophecy controlled their lives for so long and nearly killed them all.

Anyway, the fact remained that he had no idea if that song _could_ be a prophecy at all. If he alerted the Order and that was impossible, he'd only make a fool of himself. Ron didn't like feeling like an idiot. Or incapable.

_But still, what if it is a prophecy or a warning or something?_

He couldn't just sit back and do nothing!

In the end he stopped by at Madam Malkin's on his way home, pretending that he wanted to buy a scarf for Lois so he could chat with Lavender about his hoppie-experience. But Lavender couldn't help him either.

"I've never heard of magical creatures making detailed, rhymed prophecies. But I guess if Banshees are able to announce impending deaths with their screams, it's not completely implausible that hoppies can come up with proper prophecies.," Lavender told him. "However, I'm just a seamstress, Ron. I'm not an expert for that kind of thing. You'd have to ask Professor Trelawney. Oh, and Luna or her fiancé—Rolf really knows everything about magical creatures."

"Thanks, Lav." Ron sighed. Not exactly the answer he'd hoped for, but he knew it was sound advice. And he'd meet Luna and Rolf at the Burrow on Sunday. His mother had invited everyone she considered family and friends for Lois' birthday luncheon. He could ask them about this creature and its rhymes then …

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry this took a few days—offline life and my non-existent skills as a poet interfered with the completion of this chapter.


	33. Birthday Party

**Birthday Party**

It was the perfect birthday present, of course.

Lois was aware of that. Three days off work. Three days without two demanding toddlers. Without a husband whom she loved dearly, but who could be just as challenging as his sons – if not more so. Time for long, lonely walks in the blooming countryside around the Hogwarts' visitors' cottages. Time to finish the historical novel she'd started months before the twins' were born. Time to spend a quiet mother-and-daughter evening with Alina.

Yes, it was the perfect present.

_It was also very Molly._

Hiding behind her glass of sparkling May-wine, Lois watched the rotund witch. Both arms full of wiggling, giggling twins, she managed to quell an incipient toddler-brawl between Scorpius "Pi" Malfoy and James-Hermes "Jam-Ham" Potter with one hard look – while chatting knitting patterns with Fleur _and_ keeping an eye on Teddy at the same time. The boy was playing with a treasure-trove of Wheezes, hair red with excitement.

Peaceful relations re-established, Pi grabbed Jam's hand and pulled the baby off to the rose beds, gibbering at him non-stop. Jam, at nine months not quite ready for walking, swayed and dropped to all fours, but followed eagerly all the same. _What was wrong with the roses?_ Lois frowned. Then she glimpsed the gnome. Probably trying to sneak closer to the cakes, it was stuck between two decorative rocks. Waving crooked little legs and knobby little arms, it was desperately trying to get free. The boys plopped down before the creature, giggling and clapping. Blond and black, they should have been a study in contrasts. But sitting there, pudgy, pink-cheeked, and happy, they looked very much alike. And sweet enough to eat.

Lois caught Hannah's gaze and they shared a smile. Almost automatically, Lois turned to describe the scene to Harry. But due to his recent separation from Ginny, he wasn't there; wisely giving the Weasley clan an opportunity to gossip, argue, and decide how to deal with The Situation. And Ginny's presence had been the exception rather than the rule ever since she took up training again three months after her son's birth. But on the opposite side of the table, Luna Lovegood (soon-to-be Scamander) glowed with the happiness of early pregnancy at the sight of Kuno and Hugo waving at her from Molly's arms.

"May I?" she asked Lois, hesitating before reaching for the nearest twin.

Lois laughed at that uncharacteristic shyness. "Sure. He won't break."

Before she could reach for Hugo herself, George snatched up his nephew. "Mum, sit down, enjoy a cuppa. Honest, you act as if there are no House-elves around. – No, Lois, you can't have your son back yet. It's been what? Three days since I last had the opportunity to spoil my godson rotten. Can't have that, can we?"

And off they were. Lois blinked. "You'd think that after four years I'd be used to it," she muttered.

"I've lived with them all my life," chuckled Ron, "and I feel as steam-rollered as you look right now." Under the table, he squeezed her hand. Happiness warmed her from within. Her husband had his faults, certainly. But he was a genuinely _kind_ man, and she loved him for that.

In spite of Lois' assurance concerning Kuno's fragility, Luna was exceedingly careful as she cuddled the toddler. When he made a game of gripping long strands of her dirty-blond hair in his fists, tugging at them fiercely, she remained unfazed. Gently disentangling herself, she simply swept up her hair – not even wincing when Kuno managed to rip out a few hairs in the process.

Smiling, Ron nodded at Luna and his squirming son. "I think I can see why you're so good with magical creatures. I've seen Hannah lose her patience with those little monkeys."

Luna laughed. "Natural born genius, that's all it takes." Her eyes protruded a little more than normally, when she added, "I hope …"

Ron cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Speaking of your genius," he said slowly, "I'm actually rather counting on it."

Bouncing Kuno on her knees, Luna focused on Ron. "Yes?"

"A few days ago I had a strange customer at the shop, and I was wondering if you could maybe tell me something about – him – it –" Ron shrugged, obviously unsure about the proper classification.

"Can you describe your customer for me? What he, or it, looked like, sounded like – everything that you remember?" Suddenly her usual vagueness and ditziness were gone, leaving behind an internationally renowned specialist for magical creatures.

"Well," Ron started, "first I thought it was a House-elf. But it was too small, and looked more like a cherub. Only not fat enough. And there were no wings that I could see." He rubbed at his nose. "Then I thought it might be some weird kind of Muggle."

He glanced apologetically at Lois, who had to bite her tongue, hard. Not because of the _expression,_ but because Ron of all people should know that only Muggles with passports approved by the wizarding authorities could enter Diagon Alley.

"Well," Ron continued, his ears flushing with embarrassment, "it had those long, golden locks. And … it _sang. _Well, at first it only hummed. But at the end, it sang. So the only thing I could think was that it's one of those weird Muggles you told me about, Lois. Those, Hoppies, Happies – well, those, those … _flowerchildren."_

She must have rolled her eyes, because he turned defensive. "It was small! Knee-high. What was I supposed to think? It was no House-elf and no goblin, either."

"That's quite all right, Ron," Luna soothed. "There really are dangerous magical creatures hiding among Muggles. Wechselbälger and Rauschgoldengel for example – you really want to stay clear of those."

"Do you have any idea what it was?" Ron leant forward, strangely desperate.

Luna smiled serenely. "Oh, yes, I do. It's sort of the African version of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."

"Well, what the hell WAS it?" Ron snapped.

"An Oompa-Loompa."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Please take another look at the disclaimer for this story. Everything in this story that you recognise from the works of Roald Dahl, including, but not limited to, Oompa-Loompas, and Cavity-Filling Caramels, does, in fact, belong to Roald Dahl.


	34. Predictions and Premonitions

**Predictions and Premonitions**

"A what?" Ron asked without thinking. Then he blinked and flinched a little. But no bright-voiced reprimand made him feel like a six year old. Right. Hermione was a St Mungo's. Suddenly his mouth went quite dry. But she _was _at St Mungo's! And surely, surely, things would—

"An Oompa-Loompa," Luna repeated happily. "They were only discovered in the 1960s. In a bit of jungle, smack-dab in the middle of Africa. Known as 'Loompaland' by local witches and wizards. A very dangerous region, full of rare and deadly magical creatures. I can't wait to go there! Whangdoodles live there. And there are supposed to be hornswogglers and snozzwangers." Luna beamed. "Whangdoodles are amazing creatures, by the way. They are carnivores. Their favourite diet consists of humanoids—goblins, oompa-loompas, and when they can get them, human children. Their mating customs are amazing, they draw those fascinating doodles into the mud near riverbanks—"

Lois made a choked noise next to him. Looking down at his plate, Ron suddenly felt no more appetite for the huge piece of chocolate cake awaiting his attentions.

"You wanted to tell us something about Oompa-Loompas, dear," Molly managed faintly.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Luna didn't look sorry at all. "Loompaland is nearly at the top of the list of things I want to see in my life, right after the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, you know. Rolf tells me I get carried away sometimes."

Lois coughed. Ron found her knee under the table and squeezed it a little. "The Oompa-Loompas?" he suggested.

Luna nodded and pulled out her glasses. A sure sign that she was settling down for serious business. Her glasses looked like simple, golden-rimmed Muggle affairs—and extremely odd on her. Ron wondered what exactly they showed Luna.

"An American wizard on his world tour discovered them and published the only available article about them in 'Fantastical Beasts'. After his discovery, only one team of magical creature experts had the chance to investigate the site. Newt Scamander was a part of that team in 1965. It's one of the greatest mysteries of my profession. You see, after that very promising initial examination, the Oompa-Loompas disappeared. No one has seen even so much as a toe-nail of them since! Until now, that is." She gazed at Ron, so wide-eyed that Ron felt he could drown in her limpid blue stare.

Suddenly she looked away, and her tone changed, cool and crisp. "There is only one picture extant, but this photograph and the descriptions from Newt Scamander's papers match what you say exactly, Ron. Oompa-Loompas are about as high as the knee of a tall wizard, they—have long golden hair, often curly, and very white skin, rosy cheeks and blue eyes. Their diet —if they can get it, that is—consists primarily of cocoa beans, but they also eat the bark of the bong-bong tree. If that is not available, they turn to green caterpillars and red beetles. That American wizard—a Willy Wonka—mentions also eucalyptus leaves. But that must be a mistake, since there are no eucalyptus trees in Africa, not even in the magical parts of the continent's jungles." Suddenly Luna's eyes bugged out with excitement. "Unless, of course, he discovered another tribe of Oompa-Loompas. _In Australia._ I don't think anyone has ever searched for Oompa-Loompas in Australia before."

When everyone just stared at her, speechless, Luna blinked. "Oh, yes, we weren't finished, were we?" She turned back to Ron. "Oompa-Loompas have an extremely strange social structure. They are completely fixated on one leader and will do everything he says, no matter what it is. They have no conscience, only obedience. Newt Scamander had a theory that Loompaland was regarded as so very dangerous by the locals not so much because of the deadly beasts living there, but because the old Oompa-Loompa chieftains ordered every outsider who entered the jungle caught, killed and cooked for Sunday luncheon."

Ron gulped audibly. But no one seemed to hear him. Molly was fanning herself with her saucer. However, Luna went on blithely, completely entranced by her subject. "They communicate primarily in song, probably so hornswogglers think that they are birds. You see, Oompa-Loompas live in tree-houses. Or lived, that is."

Luna fell silent, obviously many miles away in her thoughts. No doubt crawling around in an African jungle and searching for Oompa-Loompas, Horn-Snozzers and Blog-Doodles, Ron thought.

"Oh," Luna added suddenly, cutting through the dazed hush with her cheerful voice. "And their songs contain predictions of the future."

**oooOooo**

Her room was black. No light at all. And silent. No noise at all. Even in the silence of the deepest dungeons, Hogwarts was filled with the hum of humanity.

Here, Hermione was alone, the only sound her laboured breathing, the drumbeat of her frantic heart pounding in her ears. Instinctively she raised shaking hands as if to ward off—

Ward off what? With what? She had no wand!

Suddenly realisation struck her like a blow. She fell forwards over her knees in agony. The familiar sizzle of magic in her veins was gone. Once more she felt as she had in the monastery, empty, no magic, nothing but a shell, a leaf tossed in a dark wind—

Her stomach cramped as a scream exploded from deep within her. But when she opened her mouth, no sound emerged.

In the darkness before her, her hands started to glow with an eerie light. Its shine illuminated a child's face. A girl, maybe ten or twelve years old. Straight brown hair, freckles. Strange, amber eyes.

_Perdita_.

"Hermione," her sister whispered. "You must do something!"

"How?" Hermione wailed. "I have no wand!"

"Make one!" Perdita ordered.

From what? Hermione thought. And then she realised what Perdita was looking at.

_Her hands._

Her hands, still raised in a defensive gesture, still burning. She stared into that light. Her eyes hurt just from looking at it. She could see the silhouettes of her finger bones in the fire.

Slender, straight bones.

_"Make one!"_ Perdita repeated.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Everything that is taken from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" really belongs to Roald Dahl. And not to Luna Lovegood. No matter how much she'd like that. Most of the other stuff belongs to Joanne K. Rowling. (Though Luna Lovegood insists she only belongs to herself. And Rolf, maybe.) Some essential things belong to Garth Nix. Not in this chapter, but still.

Hope you liked my contribution to all the stuff that doesn't belong to me.


	35. Maybe

**Maybe**

When Hermione woke, she did not open her eyes at once. Relief and apprehension flowed through her in equal measure. Not the monastery. But also not Hogwarts.

_St Mungo's. _

While the hospital stench she associated with Muggle clinics was absent, a distinct scent of herbs and potions pervaded the air, assuring her that she could not be anywhere else.

A dream, then.

Yet her hands _ached._ She blinked leaden eyes open. As much as her magic had become a burden for her, the emptiness without it, this bone-deep exhaustion, was not much better.

Twilight was creeping through the open window, the sun only a splash of muted red and orange at the western horizon. Her nap had obviously lasted much longer than she'd intended. In the far corner of the room Severus sat at a small desk, poring over a long letter typed on Muggle paper in the pure, white light of a Chakra stone.

_Easy reading with Hermione-magic,_ she thought dryly. _Environmentally friendly energy at its best. Enjoy it while she lasts._

She'd been on the right track with using the _Lumos_ spell to measure magic, at least. As it turned out, while there were no mechanisms to measure magic as such, spells did exist that analysed the health of magic. For example, a dangerous complication of dragon pox was an infection of the patient's magic. One method of examination was to fill a Chakra stone with magic and to interpret the resulting magical aura. Hermione's suggestion to use the electromagnetic radiation more commonly known as light as the means of an exact analysis was accepted enthusiastically. Master Healer Hippocrates Smethwyck himself adjusted the original spell so it would transform transferred magic into light and Journeyman Healer Augustus Pye successfully adapted Muggle instruments to work in the magic-saturated environment of St Mungo's. Now the devices provided astonishingly exact measurements of intensity, frequency and polarisation of the radiation derived from magic. Healer Pye was ecstatic with the new diagnostic tool. Hermione remembered that he had been the one to use Muggle sutures to save Arthur Weasley's life after Nagini's attack. That way at least something good would come of this, Hermione reflected.

Throughout last week, Smethwyck, Pye and Muriel had tested her magic, along with that of various healthy and ill wizards and witches. This morning had heralded the next step of their tests. Hermione's magic had been drained completely. Only her core-magic was left untouched. As soon as her magic was up to par again, the process would be repeated. Of course there was the danger that this examination procedure would exacerbate her condition. But at the moment there was no alternative.

Hermione couldn't remember when she lost consciousness.

Now she lay motionless, enjoying the blessed numbness, the absence of fire in her veins, consuming her from within. The stinging in her hands was easy to ignore. And she was used to the aching hollowness inside her.

She watched Severus, the way he slumped at the desk, shoulders round with the burden of exhaustion—and responsibility, she thought; she knew he was even now working on the re-warding of Hogwarts. His hair was greasy with neglect once more. The beautiful light of her magic threw his profile into sharp relief. He looked worried and weary, and Hermione couldn't suppress a sigh.

At once his head swivelled and he was on his feet and at her side in a heartbeat. "You're awake," he whispered.

"Stating the obvious?" Hermione teased lightly. "Don't you trust Master Healer Smethwyck?"

"I am inclined not to distrust Mugwort," he replied, the corners of his mouth turning down in disdain.

"That's my Severus." She laughed softly.

"How are you feeling?" Automatically he reached for her hands. When she stiffened, he stopped, his fingers barely an inch away from her skin. He frowned.

"My hands." She grimaced as she tried to lift her hands a little. "They … ache."

He nodded and made to rise. "I'm summoning Mugwort."

"Not quite yet, please," she begged. Her smile, meant to be reassuring, faltered. "Time with you is precious."

He frowned harder, but remained seated.

"I dreamt of Perdita again," she said abruptly. "Or rather, Cordelia. I don't know why she is Perdita in my dreams. Are you sure that she's really a Muggle, Severus? In this last dream she told me to make my own wand." Hermione took a deep breath. "… of my finger bones."

"Of what???"

Neither of them was a stranger to nightly scares, so they tended to treat such occurrences very matter of factly, though not without comfort for the other. Still, the shock Severus showed at her words was somewhat gratifying.

"Yes," Hermione affirmed. "They were glowing in the dream. Like …" She nodded at the Chakra stone on the desk in the corner.

"Ah." Severus relaxed minutely. "That might be the explanation. And you have fixated on your hands ever since …" He trailed off.

For a while Hermione just lay there and stared at the ceiling, Severus silent at her side. _Yes,_ she thought. _That must be the explanation. I just can't seem to shake off that trauma. But why? I know what it is, how it came about. Why doesn't it go away?_

Finally she allowed herself another sigh. "You were reading when I woke," Hermione said, decisively changing the topic before they had to call Muriel for her check-up. "A letter from Abbé Nihel?"

Severus nodded. "He suggests Pentecost for the blessing of Hogwarts. The day of the descent of the Holy Spirit. Heavenly powers bestowed upon humans. Furthermore, the modern Christian holiday has ancient roots in the Jewish feast of Shavuot, the celebration of the day God gave the Torah to Moses on Mount Sinai." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have to consult Augusta Longbottom if his ceremony interferes with her solstice ritual."

"Maybe Voldemort won't come back," Hermione suggested. "Or at least not in our lifetime."

"Maybe," Severus agreed. But he did not sound convinced.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading, and please feel free to leave a comment. I'm always interested in your reactions and opinions.


	36. Orgy in the Dungeons

**Orgy in the Dungeons**

"We're a sorry trio, huh?" Harry Potter asked. "Spending a sunny Sunday afternoon down here in the dungeons."

"Stop moping, mate," Draco complained. "It's not our fault you decided it wouldn't be politically correct to go to Lois' birthday party. Though it really escapes me why our little Tori is sticking around when she's not being paid for it."

Astoria didn't have a good answer to that question, at least none that she felt comfortable with. So she stretched her arms out in front of her, pretending to admire her perfectly pale complexion. "You just said it, Harry. A _sunny_ Sunday afternoon. Sunlight isn't good for my skin."

"And such pretty skin, too," Draco drawled. "So smooth and white."

"Tsk, tsk, Draco. Don't molest our intern, you know we need her to do our dirty work," Harry teased. "And really, can ghosts even …" He coughed, realising belatedly that certain jokes should not be shared in front of a lady.

Draco, of course, had no such compunctions. He was a Malfoy, after all. "A ghost can –" He leered at Astoria's elegantly suggestive cleavage. An icy shiver raced through her. Her nipples prickled. She felt heat rise to her cheeks in a fierce blush.

"– dream," Draco finished dryly.

The fire flared up in the green colour of a Floo call just in time to prevent an extremely awkward silence. George Weasley poked his head through. "Wow, Draco, Harry, _and_ Tori. An orgy in the dungeons, I see. That's the spirit, that's the spirit. Hate to break things up for you, my dears, but we need Harry over here _now._ Impromptu Order meeting. Harry, Minerva says to go via St Mungo's and get Snape, kicking and screaming if necessary. Just stun him and petrify him from behind, I say, and save your apologies for later."

**oooOooo**

Watching the Floo flames dim and diminish behind Harry, Astoria dared to venture a question: "An Order meeting? But … I thought the Order of the Phoenix was disbanded after the – after –"

"After Voldemort's tragic demise?" Draco sneered. "That is what the Prophet and the Quibbler reported, yes."

Which was indeed the source of her information.

"And the Minister for Magic? Does she … know? And –"

"Since Harry hasn't Obliviated you before he Floo'ed, what kind of secret do you think the continued existence of the Order is, Tori? And I do believe you sorted some memos concerning the Minister's schedule this week, didn't you? _'Auror guard of four, for the Minister and family, on Sunday afternoon, in Ottery St Catchpole; reason: a private party'_," Draco quoted.

"Oh." Once more Astoria wondered why she had opted to come in on this Sunday afternoon. It certainly wasn't for Draco's sunny temperament.

"Tori," Draco went on, this time unexpectedly gentle. "You had no reason to realise this yet, but you've been in put into a very precarious position. This archive is a place of many secrets. Some simple, some sordid; many dangerous, and more than a few …" He paused. When he continued, his whisper raised the tiny golden hairs on her arms. "… lethal."

"I –" Astoria swallowed hard. She had begun to suspect that there was more to the Archive than met the eye. And to wonder why Theodore Nott had pushed her into this job. At first glance, it was the perfect job for her, given her circumstances. _But …_ "I've been wondering why I got this job. At first I thought it was an act of pity. Slytherins _do_ take care of their own. Even the black sheep in their family."

"It does seem rather like a dead-end for any career to be marooned down here. And Mr Potter has done his best to tarnish the sparkle and glitter of his heroic personage," Draco smirked. "And that when he's not even trying," he muttered. Then, flicking off some invisible lint from his translucent sleeve, he favoured Astoria with a slight smile. "So there are some Slytherin instincts in this faithful Hufflepuff after all! Well done, Tori. And what is your conclusion, my sweet? Why _are _you here?"

She stared at him, in his shimmering silver elegance that only served to emphasise the aloofness she'd already found annoying while he was alive and merely five years old. How she resented that everything came down to a question of Houses in the end. Her very personal albatross, and her family's saving grace. "Certainly not because of those Slytherin instincts." Astoria sniffed. Then she added, her tone resigned, "So I assume it must be my happy Hufflepuff nature."

Draco steepled his fingers – his lecture pose. His fingers formed semi-translucent layers, a strange effect. "Let's just say that my very good friend Theodore Nott does _nothing_ without a reason. A very _good_ reason. And most of the time, two or three of them." He affected an inhalation, his silhouette swelling and shrinking minutely. "I … shall tell you a secret. A minor one, and you may make of it what you will. You may … regard it as it a test of sorts."

Astoria had never liked tests. Her nerves had cost her precious points at the OWL and NEWT examinations. She swallowed, but her throat remained tight and a sour taste lingered in her mouth. "All right."

"Fact one: Dear Theo is determined to be the best assistant a Minister for Magic ever had. Fact two: Harry and I were not informed about your delightful presence beforehand. Fact three: In two weeks you will be invited to the victory banquet after Fudge has been elected president of the European Magical Union." Draco paused, allowing the information to sink in. "Consider your options carefully, Astoria. The archive appeals to you because it seems so far away from the upstairs world, its pain and its past. But that is just an illusion. Politics and power play know no safe spaces."

"Why are you telling me all that, Draco?" Astoria asked.

The ghost shrugged. "Maybe I'm bored."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you like this newest installment! Thank you for taking the time to read, and how about leaving a comment, dearest lurkers? I know you're out there. What made you smile, what made you frown, what's the most memorable line?


	37. Secret Meetings

**Secret Meetings**

Barret Cruddace had called this meeting.

Now the Knights were all gathered up on the Astronomy Tower. Alina with her heavy bookbag in tow and hand in hand with Cato Cornell. Barret scowled.

"The headmistress got called away," Barret announced. "An _emergency meeting_ of the Order of the Phoenix."

"How did _you_ hear about that?" demanded Myrrdin.

"Weasley was taking me up for detention."

Alina rolled her eyes and tilted her head back to indicate the parchment floating above her. _What did you do this time, Cruddy?_

"Nothing!" he retorted. How he hated Cato's smirk. "Beating up a bloo—" He coughed. "Just some _uh…_ duelling practice."

Another eye roll.

"Do you _want_ to hear what I overheard? You know, I don't have to tell you, if you're not interested!"

"Of course we are, Barret," soothed Prue Halleywell, her brown eyes wide and worried. _When did she stop calling me Crudass? _Barret wondered.

_Let's hear it then,_ Alina's parchment spelled out.

Barret cleared his throat. It felt good to be the centre of attention for once. "It's an emergency meeting," he repeated importantly. "There's been a new prophecy. And _Harry Potter_ will take Snape there."

"Professor Snape," Prue corrected softly. But she smiled at him, and Barret found he didn't mind the reprimand.

Cato pressed his forefinger against the side of his nose. "What can be important enough to make Professor Snape leave Hermione alone at St Mungo's?"

_something that could help her, _Alina's quill scratched. _Or something so dangerous he had to go anyway_

Ebenezer pushed himself away from a merlon. "My vote's on dangerous; good news could have waited until tomorrow."

Barret nodded. "That's what I think, too.—So how do we find out what it's all about?"

"Eavesdropping Leaves?" Alyah suggested.

_Worth a try,_ Alina's quill declared.

**oooOooo**

"So He really _will_ come back," Minerva said wearily.

Suddenly she remembered another Order meeting, long ago. One of the first meetings after James and Lily joined the Order; when it was painfully clear that a change of the tides of war was imminent, even without the prophecy.

Albus, still with streaks of auburn in his silvering hair. Moody, still whole, cutting a dashing figure with his tankard of behemoth-bone before him. The Potters, the Longbottoms – newlyweds, so happy, and determined to fight for their future. Sirius Black, bitter envy lurking in his eyes. Remus Lupin. Already looking as worn out as she felt today. Arthur, Fabian, and Gideon. Molly at home of course, just like today, watching the children.

Tonight, Percy Weasley was taking the minutes of the meeting next to her, his hand as precise and perfect as if he was writing wedding invitations instead of possible interpretations of petrifying prophecies.

_Meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, 18 May 2003, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London. Present are: Minerva McGonagall, Head of the Order; Abbott, Hannah; Creevey, Dennis…_

"Not necessarily," Luna objected, enthusiastically leafing through a huge tome on magical creatures. The book took up most of the table. And it was so fat that _'high'_ was the better adjective: Luna could comfortably rest her chin on it.

"The Bogeyman," she went on, "is a collective term, known in variations around the world. In Azerbaijan this creature is the _'khokhan', _in Croatia the _'babaroga',_ in Iran he's the '_lulu-khorkhore' _and so on and so forth. Among experts, the consensus is that it's actually a magical creature related to Boggarts and Dementors, since its most common form is a male figure dressed in black, instilling fear in—"

"Snape! It's Snape!" Dennis interrupted and the younger Order members burst out laughing. Minerva winced.

"We should get that lucky," Snape commented sourly, a white-faced spectre in black robes, lurking in the farthest corner of the room. Outside, a flurry of leaves fluttered past the windows in a gust of wind. A few drifted down to lie on the window-sills.

Elphias Doge tugged thoughtfully at his beard, before he wheezed, "Honoured Order members. Dearest Minerva. Severus. I hope you won't take this amiss, _but…_is it not possible that the young lady is correct? I hear she has travelled the world in the company of Newt Scamander's grandson. My dear friend Newt is the most distinguished luminary in the field. It seems to me therefore that Miss Lovegood must be regarded as such, too. Should we not take into account that she may be right? That this is no more than childhood boggle? If it can be kept at bay with a simple _Riddikulus, _surely there is not all that much to worry about."

"And what, Master Doge," Severus asked softly, "of the rest of the charming chant? Light without shadow, magic without wizardry? What do you make of that, _praytell?"_

His parody of the old wizard's antiquated manner was perfect. Minerva suppressed a grimace. But before she could issue a call to order, Luna spoke again, her tone unconcerned. She could have been discussing breeding strategies for pygmy puffs. "Oh, but Master Doge, I never _said_ a bogeyman is just a harmless childhood boggle. And I am so sorry, but I must disagree with you, too, Dennis. While it is true that Professor Snape favours black, I've seen him wear green for Quidditch, and Muggle clothes to a concert. Hermione even has a picture of him in blue jeans."

"A very sexy shot," Luna added dreamily. "You really should wear Muggle clothes more often, Professor.—Also, Dennis, if Professor Snape's diet consisted of children, don't you think someone would have noticed by now? That's what a Bogeyman lives on, you know. Just like it says in the Oompa-Loompa's song. It eats children. Though it's been impossible to determine _why_ it eats them—well, apart from being hungry, of course. What I mean is that we don't know if it's after their flesh, their soul, or their magic. You see, while Bogeymen have been observed on and off for something like three thousand years, no one has ever caught or killed one."

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **"Eavesdropping Leaves" are my own invention; they are an improved, long distance version of Extendable Ears, and, of course, a Weasley product.

And the ubiquitousness of the Bogeyman in myths and fairy tales around the globe is quite fascinating, even if you just take a quick look at Wikipedia.

Thanks for reading and please feel free to leave a comment—comments make me happy!


	38. Shadows Within, Shadows Without

**Shadows Within, Shadows Without**

Minerva stared at Luna Lovegood, glowing with the rose-bud bliss of early pregnancy, chatting away happily about child-devouring creatures—and considered that Luna was possibly the most cold-blooded witch she knew.

Next to Luna, Harry stiffened, hands cramping around each other in an effort to contain his tension. Ron Weasley sat on the other side of the room, white as a sheet, his freckles standing out dark like Spattergroit. To his left, Lois pressed a hand to her mouth, smothering a gasp. Hannah Abbott's eyes filled with tears.

Parents of young children, all of them! _Oh Merlin and Nimue._ Even if the prophecy had nothing to do with Voldemort, it was a terrible threat all on its own.

Suddenly Minerva felt old, much older than her seventy-seven years (which still put her comfortably in middle age as a witch, thank you very much). And _alone._ Albus had always relied on her and Severus as his confidantes and companions. To be perfectly honest, he had exploited his…_connection_—you couldn't really call it relationship—with Severus quite ruthlessly. She glanced at the haggard man. _No._ Even if he had anything left to give to anyone but Hermione, _she_ wouldn't be the one to take it. He was burdened enough for two life-times.

Minerva inhaled, straightened her shoulders and clapped her hands. "Kindly stop chattering, will ye? Thank you. And you, Miss Lovegood, for sharing your expertise.

"I conclude: At this point we are unable to determine if the bogeyman from the Oompa-Loompa's song has anything to do with Voldemort. While the second part of the song seems even more obscure—Mr Creevey, _I'm_ talking now— I do agree that it likely refers to Mr Potter and Miss Petrel."

_And Severus with his mobile shadow,_ she thought, wondering if that was the reason the Potions Master was hiding in the darkest corner of the room once again. She must ask him later, and about Hermione's condition…

"However, one thing seems sure," Minerva announced briskly, "the wizarding world is facing a new threat, and a most dire one at that—a threat aimed at our children. Our future.

"But thanks to the alertness of young Mr Weasley we have been warned.

"Therefore: Stay on your guard at all times. If the connection with the British candidate for the EMU presidency may be taken as clue concerning the timing, disaster may strike soon. Watch out for your children. Looking under beds at night is not silly, but a sensible precaution at the moment. As the late Alastair Moody always said, _'Constant vigilance!'_ Pass the word among neighbours, friends and family.

"I will give a full report to the Minister. If you notice anything unusual, if you discover anything to help solve this riddle—my Floo is always open. That is all for now. Thank you for your time and attention."

**oooOooo**

_Bored?_ Astoria frowned. Well, she supposed it _was_ possible, since he couldn't leave the Ministry yet and he was the only ghost who li—existed there. On the other hand, he _was_ a Slytherin…

"Well, if you're bored, how about some board games while we wait?" she suggested, trying out her best coy smile.

"A suggestion," Draco smirked, "which only brings us back to Harry's question: why are you willing to while away a lovely Sunday afternoon with a dead man in the dungeons? Interesting inclinations, my dear."

Heat flooded her, and in the wake of embarrassment, anger. Flustered, she jumped to her feet, the words _"If you want me to leave, why don't you just say so!"_ already on her tongue. But then she remembered her beautiful, difficult sister. Daphne had never been able to tell anyone what she wanted or what she needed. And sometimes, when she was at her most vicious, Daphne had really only wanted a hug. Behaviour, which pretty much confounded Astoria. She leant back in her seat with a sigh.

"I think I already explained that," she said. "I'm allergic to sunlight."

"Rubbish!" retorted Draco. "You _hate_ it down here. Don't forget I know you since the day you were born, Astoria Aegle Greengrass! You would have stayed outside day _and _night if they only let you when we were children."

She closed her eyes for a moment. While she _did_ love the sun and the wind and the rain, her love of nature was prompted primarily by other motives.

"It was_…peaceful_ outside," she said at last. Then she added slowly, "But…I…have become more comfortable inside since—since I am certain that my father will never come home again."

She opened her eyes and stared straight at the ghost, once more ensconced in that strange silent place deep within her, where no shame and no fear could ever reach.

"I still don't want your pity," Draco muttered.

"What if you need it?" she countered.

"Would you take mine?" he scathed, translucent eyebrow arched.

"Why not?" she said softly. "If you are willing to give it to me?"

**oooOooo**

"Well, holy shite," Barret breathed, instinctively falling back on Muggle slang.

Alina's concentration slipped and her parchment fluttered to the ground. Barret could see that Prue had tears in her eyes. And Alyah was shaking all over.

"You said it, mate," Cato Cornell said and pulled Alina closer.

"And thank you, Percy Weasley, for being so anal-retentive to repeat the whole prophecy verbatim so no one will forget that they have homework to do," said Ebenezer softly.

"The—the," Myrrdin gulped. "Those Eavesdropping Leaves work great, anyway."

"What are we going to do now?" asked Gilly Duncan in a very small voice.

"We have to help protect the little ones, of course," Ebenezer said.

The Knights stared at Ebe.

"The firsties," Alyah whispered. "They're still children, aren't they."

Terrwyn looked sick. "Some of the second years, too."

Barret shuddered. Alina crumpled her parchment in her fist. Cato moved away from her until he could see her face.

"When does a child stop being a child?" he read aloud from her lips.

**oooOooo**

**

* * *

A****/N: **Thank you for reading and please feel free to leave a comment—what made you smile, what made you frown, what was the most memorable line...comments make authors happy!


	39. Friendship?

**Friendship?**

Draco stared at her in silence. Her breathing reverberated noisy like a behemoth's in Astoria's ears.

At last Draco shook his head. His low laughter was as silvery and sad as the ghost himself. "What is it with you Hufflepuffs, I wonder …"

He drifted closer. A shiver raced down Astoria's back, and her nipples pulsed against the fabric of her robes. Were he alive, she would have felt his breath on her neck. Since he was not, she could see the bookshelves lining his office through his smile as if shrouded in mist. She held her breath.

_Sefer Raziel HaMalakh. Liber incantationum, exorcismorum et fascinationum variarum. Ġāyat al-__Ḥ__akīm. The Tales of Beedle the Bard?!_

Suddenly time started again. Astoria gasped. Draco drew back.

"Tori, this is not a good idea. You cannot save me anymore; I am already dead."

"Does that mean we can't be friends?" Her lower lip started to tremble.

Draco rolled his eyes. "We _are_ friends. Neither life nor death will ever change that."

Another long silence. This time, thoughtful. Almost peaceful.

A cup of herbal tea appeared before Astoria. Lavender and mint, a hint of honey, a dash of lemon. Again, the contours of the dungeons grew hazy, this time obscured by warm wisps of fragrant steam.

"Your mother," Draco said abruptly. "She's still friends with my mother, is she?"

Astoria put her cup down. "Like you said, some friendships neither life nor death can destroy. Some withstand even Azkaban and the Wizengamot."

His sigh dispersed the hot air above her tea. "Do you ever see her?"

"Yes," Astoria said. "Now and again." She swallowed hard. "Your father, too."

The already chilly dungeon grew icy. But Astoria forced herself to continue: "They…_both_…miss you."

She took a deep breath. "We've been invited for dinner at the Manor next Friday."

Yet another silence. Draco drifted over to the fish tank with the lobalug. Astoria concentrated on the titles of Draco's books. That fish was giving her the jimjams.

"Would you…tell—" With a flick of its fat tail the fish hid in its cave. "—would you tell my…parents that I…think of them?"

**oooOooo**

Stiffly Minerva stumbled from the Floo. Luckily one armchair was positioned just right for a cosy evening in front of the fire, or she might have fallen. Minerva slumped down and watched the green tinge bleed from the flames, leaving them red and golden, pure and innocent.

With a grunt she pushed herself back on her feet.

"Pride and grace dwell ne'er in ae place," she muttered and pulled out her lion-headed cane from behind the whisky-cupboard. While she liked to think of herself as a witch still in her prime, she knew better than to try and negotiate the steep staircases of Hogwarts without help, exhausted as she was.

The descent to the Great Hall seemed endless tonight. She found Professor Weasley in the staff-room, buried behind a pile of essays—a fearsome sight with his ragged scars and scowling so fiercely.

"I'm back," she sighed, settling down laboriously at the opposite side of the table. "Did anything happen while I was gone?"

Bill put down his quill. "Nothing out of the ordinary. I caught the Little Knights up on the Astronomy Tower. Coming up with detentions for all fourteen of them was a challenge, but I managed. What about the meeting? Anything I should know?"

Minerva nodded. "Yes, indeed…"

**oooOooo**

Alina was sulking. Sure, cleaning bed-pans with your hands was bad. She didn't envy Crudass _that_ job. But having to darn sheets the _Muggle_ way was ten times worse. Especially since it wreaked havoc on her concentration and she couldn't keep her damn parchment afloat and her effing quill writing while she was pricking herself in the finger with that bloody needle every blasted stitch.

And to top things off, Crudass was talking non-stop and so fast that she couldn't keep up with the movements of his lips.

On the other hand—just going by the gist of his tirade—maybe she was better off missing most of it.

**oooOooo**

"…and you're always hanging around with Cato these days! I thought we were _friends!_ We never do anything together anymore. That's some _faithful_ knight you are!" Barret spat. He knew he was being unfair and that Alina was having trouble to understand him. But for once he didn't care. Turning around with another dirty bucket in his hands, he stumbled over Alina's bulging book bag.

_"Bloody buggering blasted hell!"_ he exclaimed. Why did she have to keep lugging that monstrous thing with her everywhere she went? He aimed a hefty kick at the bag.

Deadly, absolute cold shot up his leg, gripped his heart, clutched his throat like a vice, froze damp lashes of eyes solid that he squeezed tight against the pain.

Somewhere far away he could hear a violin playing.

**oooOooo**

"…I am grateful the rituals for renewing the wards are already scheduled," Minerva concluded. "Augusta will come to tea on Wednesday. Abbé Nihel made an appointment with Severus for Friday.—Are you satisfied with your own progress in this?"

"I am," Bill nodded. "But, Headmistress—"

He stopped. Suddenly his ears reddened with the typical Weasley flush.

_"Hmm?_ Well, out with it, what's bathering ye?"

"Headmistress, you do look very tired and—"

Warm affection for the lad filled Minerva. "Are you telling me to go to bed, Professor Weasley?"

The DADA professor cleared his throat. "Possibly," he admitted with a sheepish grin.

"I shall get rest as soon as I may," she told him. "And I even promise to stop by the hospital wing and get a potion and a lotion from Poppy to soothe my aches and pains."

His swift smile Charmed away his scars for a split-second. "Well, that's all right then. I have rounds, and then I think I'll wait for Severus."

Minerva nodded. Then, leaning heavily on her cane, she made her way up the stairs to the first floor. _A kingdom for a lift, _she thought.

**oooOooo**

**

* * *

A****/N: **The titles of the books Astoria sees in Draco's office are all famous medieval or Renaissance grimoires. With the exception of "The Tales of Beedle the Bard", of course, which belong to JKR.


	40. Snape sings

**Snape sings **

A scream clawed at Alina's throat, tore at it. But she did not move. She stood and stared at Barret, where he lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.

And listened—

For the first time in two years, Alina could hear.

Could hear something beyond the screams and sighs and sounds of the dying in her head.

She heard Barret sobbing_—"Shit, shit, bloody fucking shit!"—_in the distance played a violin—she knew that melody, she'd heard it before—and closer, so much closer, she heard the rushing of a river. Another sound she'd heard before.

Suddenly, a second voice spoke, soft and sibilant, "Ssscream, ssscream, ssscream boy, no one hearzzz you. What izzz your name, boy? Why are you here, boy?"

Alina froze. The violin stopped. Danger deadlier than death filled that voice. _Barret, don't say a word, _she thought. _Just don't say anything at all. _But, as if caught in a dream where you know the monster the moment before it emerges from the shadows, she knew that Barret would answer.

"I—I—I'm Barret Cruddace, Gryffindor House. I—I—I'm not quite sure why I'm here—and where—where _is_ here, anyway? I—I—I kicked Alina's bloody book and—and suddenly I'm here—and—and did you hear that violin just now, too, sir?"

"A book? A book sssent you here? Which book wasss it, Cruddacccce? What izzzz itssssss title?"

Dread filled Alina. _Don't, Barret. Don't. Keep your mouth shut._

"The Book of the Dead. Snape gave it to her. She's lugging it about with her everywhere she goes, as if it's her new best friend or something." Barret still sounded hurt.

"Ssssnape? Ssseverusss SSSnape? He hasss a Book of the Dead? He gave it to hissss apprenticccce?"

"No, Alina's not his apprentice, she's just a student. His wife—Hermione Granger—was his apprentice. But sir, where am I? And how do I get back? If you know Professor Snape, can you help me get back?"

"Yessss, Cruddaccce, I can help you. Jussst take my hand, and shhhhall help you."

**_NO! _**

The silent scream burst, exploded from Alina's mouth. The violin shrilled so close that her teeth ached with the sound, the rushing of the river turned into a roar—

and Alina stumbled into Madam Pomfrey's office, grabbed the healer's arm, dragged her to the washing room of the hospital wing, while she screamed and screamed and screamed without any sound at all, and of the witch's agitated questions and orders, she couldn't hear a word.

Suddenly the headmistress was there. Barret was laid down on a bed in the hospital wing and Professor McGonagall staggered to the big fire place, threw Floo powder into the flames and called someone's name. The headmistress was nearly thrown back onto her arse from the emerald explosion that followed, erupting into billowing black robes and Professor Snape running to Barret's bed.

He laid a pale hand on the boy's forehead and sank on the wooden chair next to the bed. His eyes closed. His mouth opened—

and Alina _heard_ his voice—

singing—

raucous, rollicking, rowdy notes—

that compelled her feet to move—

propelled her forwards—

but his voice stopped her.

_"Get Mosrael, Alina. Use the emergency password. NOW!"_

Alina raced from the room.

Somewhere, far away, she could still hear two voices—one sibilant and soft, seducing and soothing, the other boyish…and scared.

Somewhere, a violin was still playing.

And somewhere, a river rushed through the darkness towards distant heavens glittering with millions of stars.

**oooOooo**

On Monday Astoria lingered in the dungeons after work until Draco relented and invited her into his room for a cuppa.

Astoria knew that for all her family traditions, she couldn't out-Slytherin a Malfoy. She was also aware that Draco was right: He was already dead, she couldn't save him anymore. Still, did you stop needing friends just because you died? Astoria rather thought you always needed friends. And with no Slytherin wiles at her disposal, her Hufflepuff stubbornness must do.

So she sat primly, her back pointedly turned to the lobalug in its tank and stirred a cup of Lady Grey.

With the Daily Prophet detailing the plans of an international reform of magical education on the desk between them, they had plenty to talk about. The British candidate for president of the European Magical Union certainly had grand plans if this _"Lasagna Process"_ of his was any indication.

"Well, international standards of magical education might not be so bad," Astoria ventured. "And layers of magical education from nursery school to apprenticeship or university actually sound like a good idea."

"Controlled by an EMU commission?" Draco raised a delicate silvery eyebrow. "Not bloody likely. Think, Astoria. You must think _beyond_ what's printed in black and white in this ruddy rag."

She sighed. _Did he absolutely have to be so demanding?_

"All right, I'll try." Astoria stared at the portly man with his carefully coiffed grey mane. He beamed at her and waved a bowler hat adorned with the British flag. Behind him lurked a thin, middle-aged wizard with a dark top hat. The pattern of the hat band seemed to show the American flag, and the wizard smirked widely.

"Well," Astoria started. "Not all families send their children to Hogwarts. International standards would help with that. And look at Molly Weasley, she's taking care of more than half a dozen toddlers already. Wouldn't she benefit from syllabi for magical nursery schools? And I remember Daphne nattering about university and how difficult it was with only a few magical courses here and there…So that seems all very positive…" She fell silent, contemplating Fudge and what she knew about him. "…but it would also mean more government control over education. And…education means influence on—"

"Exactly!" Draco cried. "More influence on what people _know,_ what people _think,_ and on _how_ they think to start with! And—"

The Floo activated, interrupting Draco. With billowing robes, a black figure emerged from the fire place…

**oooOooo**

**

* * *

A/N: **The "Lasagna Process" is, of course, an allusion to the so-called "Bologna Process" of European educational policies.


	41. Where There is Love There is Life

**Where There is Love There is Life**

"Severus!" Draco floated over to the Potions Master.

Professor Snape dusted off his robes. He scowled. "Draco." He frowned. "Miss Greengrass."

"—and where is Potter?" he added, apparently an afterthought.

Draco seemed genuinely happy to see his former head of House; Astoria would have preferred to turn into a mouse and disappear in the next-best hole.

"Harry's not here. He nipped out early to catch a Portkey to Rome and take little Jam to his mum. Is something wrong?" The ghost's form darkened with worry. "Have a cuppa.—You can't go to St Mungo's looking that peaky."

"Your keen observation skills never cease to astonish me," Professor Snape retorted dryly. "Kindly remember you're a ghost and not my—dead—mother." But he did sit down in the other visitor's chair. When a steaming mug of very black tea with a deep smoky scent appeared, he reached for it with a sigh.

The ghost hovered. Professor Snape took a deep swallow, then rolled his eyes at Draco. "Just a minor emergency at Hogwarts, right after the Order meeting. That's all."

With a small inflation that Astoria interpreted as a ghostly sniff, Draco floated back behind his desk and lowered himself above his chair. "What happened?"

"The Cruddace boy and Alina had an argument during detention. Idiot Gryffindor kicked a dangerous book in a temper. Was nearly the last thing he did."

"Kicked?!" Astoria clapped her hands to her mouth. She hadn't meant to say anything! But to treat a book like that, _any_ book—

"He kicked the Book of the—"

"Draco!"

Clearly, it was time to go. Astoria rose to her feet and curtsied slightly. "I am sorry, but I have to leave. My mother will be waiting for me. Draco, thank you for the tea. Professor Snape, it was nice to see you again."

The Potions Master rose and dropped a hint of a kiss into the air above her extended hand. "My regards to your mother, Miss Greengrass."

Suddenly silvery mist enveloped her. "Tori…"

"It's all right, Draco. See you tomorrow."

**oooOooo**

After the whoosh of the Floo in the office outside died down, confirming that Astoria had indeed left, Severus rounded on Draco, his expression forbidding, his tone harsh. "What in Merlin's magic-forsaken name are you _thinking,_ Draco? Has death finally addled what meagre modicum of mind you possess? _That girl is in love with you!"_

Turning his back on Severus, Draco glided over to the fish tank with the lobalug. The fish was hiding in its cave. Draco watched how the silvery outline of what once was his body glittered in the dark water.

_"Draco…" _

The sudden softness of Severus' voice was worse than his accusations. The lobalug seemed to feel its master's proximity. Its snout appeared, all ten inches of it. The rounded sac brimming with venom dragged gently across the sandy bottom of its tank. Draco stared at the ugly little creature and tried to concentrate on the fact that he was dead.

But when the silver sparkles of his reflection formed an image in the dark water, it was not death he saw.

An elegant face, but no haughtiness. A pair of silver-blue eyes, but no condescension. He envisioned her tanned and freckled with summer, smiling widely, hair bleached from days spent outside in the sun, tousled from the wind, smelling of herbs, of flowers, of fruits, _of life._

But she did not look like that; she remained thin and pale, wraith-like, because she had taken to spending all her free time _here,_ in his dungeon, with him. Draco knew it was wrong, so wrong, but he couldn't shake a sense of sinister satisfaction, a deep thrill that she chose his shadow over her sunshine.

Yet at the same time, he felt strangely broken inside: he _wanted_ to prefer her sun-drenched, wind-swept…and far away from him.

_And still…_

Draco allowed himself a sigh. Before: _Inhalation, exhalation. _Now: _Expansion, deflation._

"She's a Hufflepuff, Severus. Theo planted her here to keep tabs on Harry. If I send her away _now,_ she'll end up a helpless pawn in his intrigues. I'm only trying to teach her how to protect herself. I'll let her go, I promise—as soon as she'll be safe."

**oooOooo**

"He's sleeping now, Minerva, just sleeping," Poppy promised. "You know what Severus said. Barret will be out of it for a day yet, or even two—it _was_ a close call."

The headmistress leant heavily on her cane. The Matron knew that since the Stunning spells struck Minerva, exhaustion turned into agony for her, a screaming ache inside her bones.

_And she's _always_ weary these days, weighed down with too much responsibility, _Poppy thought, _head of the school, head of the Order, and no one to share these burdens._

"You go ahead and have your first cuppa without me." Monday evening they always took tea together. "I'll just stay here for another hour, make sure everything's as it ought to be and sort through my records. Professor Weasley wants to cast a protection spell over the students who are still children."

"If you're too busy tonight—"

"And miss the highlight of my week? Never!"

**oooOooo**

When Poppy entered the office of the headmistress at a quarter past nine, a westering sun filled the tower room with warm light. The fire was burning low, more for comfort than warmth.

The leather office chair behind the desk stood turned towards the painting that took up most of the wall at its back. For a moment Poppy stared at the picture, those strange, still specks of colour—blue and gold and red and twinkling purple. Then she lowered her gaze to the small silver tabby cat curled up in the big chair, looking lost.

Quietly, she crossed the room and knelt down.

"Oh, Minnie," she whispered. "My poor Minnie." Blinking her tears away, she gently stroked the glossy fur.

For a long time afterwards, the only sound to be heard was the soft purring of a cat.

**oooOooo**

**

* * *

A/N: **The title of this chapter is a quote from Mohandas Ghandi.

In case you've forgotten: ever since Albus Dumbledore's soul was destroyed behind the Veil in "The Apprentice and the Necromancer", his portrait has turned into an abstract, unmoving Muggle painting.


	42. Trial by Fire

**Trial by Fire**

Pain seared her. Instantaneous. Excruciating. But when she opened her mouth to scream, the smoke choked her, and no sound emerged. She gasped, willing her lungs to expand, fighting for precious oxygen. But all she inhaled was heat. Heat and pain.

Looking down, she saw the flames licking over lobster-red meat – her legs. She could see her skin blister and burst. And oh, God, she could feel it!

Again, she yelped for breath, her lungs bursting with the effort, causing a different kind of pain, a sharp stab into her heart, deep inside her body. She jerked against the bounds that tied her to the stake, her body contorting in agony and with the desperate need for air.

Through the haze of the fire, she could suddenly make out a familiar silhouette: a gangly young man with a shock of fiery red hair.

Suddenly, the flames did not only surround her.

Fire erupted out of her skin, exploding her flesh, flinging skin and torn muscles and strangely clean, white fragments of bone into the blaze that enveloped her.

Ron turned to Hermione. He rolled his blue eyes in an exasperated manner. "Are you a witch or what?" he asked in that impertinent tone that just begged for a flock of canaries. "The flames can only tickle you. Seriously, get a grip!"

He didn't draw his wand or move a limb to save her from the fire.

At last darkness came and devoured her screams, and she was grateful for it.

**oooOooo**

Her body curled up rigid in the aftermath of her nightmare, her mind numb with imagined pain and terror. She was beyond crying, beyond screaming. Her throat spasmed, but Severus could make out no words, only strangled, cut-off wheezing.

"You can touch her now," Muriel Mugwort said calmly behind him, although her hands, holding fractured chi-stones, broken under the onslaught of Hermione's magic, were shaking. "The outburst is under control. It's quite safe."

Fear and frustration tempted Severus to turn and snarl at the Healer. Instead he stumbled to the chair next to Hermione's bed. Slumping down, he felt a wail rise within his throat, choking him. But no; that was not allowed. He could not break down.

Hermione needed him.

The _children_ needed him. Barret Cruddace needed him to withstand the whisperings of a demon. Alina Petrel needed him to be taught the power of Death. The students at Hogwarts needed him; especially the ones who were still children and thus prey for the coming Darkness. Potter – _Harry_ – and Draco needed him. Daredevils and imbeciles, the lot of them. Minerva, too … who was willing to entrust the very foundations of Hogwarts into his care.

Something Dumbledore would never have dreamed of.

Or would he?

After all, he _had_ gifted him with a phoenix.

But the bird belonged to Alina now.

Severus shuddered. For a moment he stared at his knees, hidden as they were under his teaching robes. He stared at the threads making up the fabric. One tiny filament had been torn loose and—

"I promise," Muriel repeated. "My spell is working. She is slipping into peaceful slumber now. Touch her, for Merlin's sake. She needs you now, more than ever."

**oooOooo**

When Hermione woke, she was alone.

For a second panic gripped her. As paralysing and dreadful as the blurred memories of her nightmare. A faltering, fearful heartbeat sent her mind back into the cursed cell of the monastery. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move, stripped of her magic, of all her defences, of all that made her who she was –

But her magic sizzled in her veins. Thrummed in every beat of her heart.

With a gasp and a cough she inhaled. Deeply. Exhaled. Again. Again. And again.

"I'm not there anymore," she whispered to herself. "I'm in St Mungo's. I'm not there anymore. I'm …"

She trailed off. Lay completely still for a moment and stared at the ceiling. Lay there. Motionless. Passive. Merely reacting to the pressure of dreams and memories.

_The problem is,_ she thought, _that a part of me is still there. Or _thinks_ that I'm still there … Obviously Muggle therapy is not enough. Why? Because the violation of my Self was too great?_ She frowned. No, she didn't believe that. She felt too … alive for that. Too rational.

"Then what's wrong with me?" she asked aloud.

"Magical imbalance," Muriel Mugwort answered as she entered the room, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup, a small basket with bread, and an array of potions phials.

The Healer helped Hermione sit up before putting the tray over her lap so she could eat supper before taking her medication. To keep her patient company, she pulled one of the visitors' chairs close to the bed.

"Magical imbalance is more common than you think. It's one of the most dangerous complications of Dragon Pox. Pregnancy often causes magical imbalance, too. Some witches never recover. Trauma – due to accidents or disturbing personal experiences – is another trigger for the condition. Sometimes magical imbalance even occurs naturally. Teenagers are prone to temporary imbalance while their magic changes and grows until it settles with adulthood. There's a reason we keep you all far away from civilisation in the Scottish Highlands. And it's not the beauty of the local scenery." Muriel winked at her.

"Oh." Hermione stared at Muriel.

"If you stop eating, I stop talking," the Healer warned.

Quickly, Hermione took another bite of bread and spooned up more soup.

Muriel smiled. "In your case the reason for the imbalance is clearly trauma. The _problem_ in your case is how bloody powerful you are. You were already powerful to start with. But the attempts of your magic to overcome the leeching curse have increased your base powers tenfold." The Healer sighed. "Therefore, traditional therapy has failed."

"What …" Hermione coughed. "What … does that mean?"

"We develop a new kind of therapy," Muriel said simply.

"We do?"

Muriel shook her head and smiled. "No, actually. _You_ do."


End file.
